Backstage
by Bibliotecaria.D
Summary: The Decepticons conquered worlds, terrorized the galaxy, landed on Earth, and became amazingly stupid. Even more amazingly, the Autobots keep falling for it.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Backstage

**Warnings: **Attempting to make funny things serious, here.

**Rating: ** G

**Continuity: G1**

**Characters: Decepticons**

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **_Deception _ + _Communication difficulties_ + _Time/Limit_

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><p>The whole Earth fiasco was hideously embarrassing to the Decepticon Empire. The Decepticons conquered worlds, terrorized the galaxy, landed on Earth, and became mind-bogglingly stupid. These were the Elite of an entire army of specialized war machines, and they couldn't manage to win against a crippled primitive in a wheelchair and an Autobot minibot. Words were inadequate to express just how humiliating the Decepticons found their torrid list of losses on Earth.<p>

History, however, might just cast that humiliation in a different light altogether. History had, after all, the luxury of being an audience to the grand play the universe put on for it. So it could sit back and watch the drama unfolding on one backwater stage called Earth, and later it'd write a review based on how the plot twisted and finally led to an ending nobody saw coming.

But that was far in the future. On Earth, history was still being made.

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><p>The spacebridge made many things possible. It let Megatron return to Cybertron. It let Cybertron connect to Earth's rich resources. It also let Cybertron connect to <em>other<em> resources. Earth was not the only, and definitely not the richest, resource in the galaxy.

Yet once they got a spacebridge, the Decepticon Elite remained on Earth. It was illogical, but so was Megatron's fixation with being the mech who destroyed Optimus Prime. This was war; why was he so determined to be the one who killed the Autobot leader?

"It's Megatron," the Autobots said to each other. "He's a crazy megalomaniac everyone on and off Cybertron hates," they said about him to their human allies. "The Decepticons are too busy infighting and killing each other to succeed," the humans said. "They'll never win," Autobots and humans said. And that was the end of the matter.

A good chunk of the reasons Megatron remained on Earth, losing a series of ridiculous battles and single-mindedly chasing Optimus Prime's destruction, lay in the fact that the Autobots didn't have a spacebridge. They were mostly out of touch with Cybertron; that was the way the Decepticons wanted to keep it. When the Autobots wanted to contact their resistance cells on Cybertron, they could occasionally manage a long, tedious back-and-forth through one of their rare space-worthy comrades. They could sometimes get brief blurbs of communication via a risky daredevil trip through the spacebridge and Shockwave's labyrinth of traps. But all the danger and effort revealed was that the Decepticons were being…Decepticons. Details remained frustratingly hard to turn up.

Then Megatron would pull off some half-baked Scheme of Stupid, threatening to destroy Earth or the Autobots or fuzzy puppies in a spectacularly foolish fashion, and Prime's crew would be sufficiently distracted back on Earth. The suspicious going-ons of the Decepticons on Cybertron would be temporarily forgotten - again - because, strategically speaking, what could they possibly be doing? Nothing really important to the faction could be happening when their leader remained on a planet so far away, madly running in circles after Earth's energy.

Optimus Prime had proven almost impossible to eliminate in the past. He'd fought with guerilla tactics and even left Cybertron in the _Ark_ for what would have ultimately been a stronger return had his mission suceeded. With energon-rich allies on Earth, Megatron had no doubt that the Autobot leader would continue to survive to be a pain in his aft for years to come. Battles and assassination attempts had all failed to take the charismatic leader out, and the Autobots would continue to grind the war effort down to a stalemate so long as Optimus Prime lived. Of this, Megatron was sure.

Time for a change in tactics.

Being trapped on Earth had driven the Decepticon Elite a little stir-crazy, those first few months. It'd result in some tomfoolery that was…rather embarrassing, looking back at it. But then Shockwave and his spacebridge technology had provided an escape from the terrible dirtball of a planet, and it'd allowed Megatron to capitalize on their brief bout of insanity. The Autobots had never been forced into such close proximity with their enemies. For all they knew, the Decepticon behavior they'd witnessed on Earth was normal. This could be taken advantage of.

"Nonsense," Starscream had grumbled when Megatron laid his plan before his officers. "How could they possibly believe that we conquered worlds like this? No rational mech could look at the Decepticon Empire and think…" He'd hesitated, because of all of the Elite, his behavior might have deteriorated the most explosively. He'd be a long time rebuilding his trampled reputation, but they'd all faced that fact in the weeks since the spacebridge's opening. He plunged ahead, "What? That we're all secretly idiots and nobody's noticed until just now?"

"Rational," Soundwave had picked up on immediately, and the Air Commander had paused, optics suddenly thoughtful.

Yes, the Decepticons hadn't been the most sane of mechs since coming online on this Primus-forsaken planet, but their insanity had been consistent. It'd been a steady, steep decline in sanity from the moment they'd come back online in 1984. It's been caused by Earth's confining atmosphere, the energon held out of their starving reach, skymad flyers trapped under water, and old cerebral systems running at full power after too long without maintenance.

The Autobots, on the other wing, had started out seemingly okay. Their lack of flyers along with an actual medic and Teletraan One had apparently given them the advantage. They seemed fine on the surface. They still did, if one didn't look too closely.

In the long run, however, the small glitches had begun to emerge, and the way that those glitches had magnified and been accepted among the Autobot ranks was telling. As power-drunk as Starscream had been at the time, even he'd known the Autobot security director was beyond recalling to duty, and that one was only the most obvious of the crazies among the Autobot officers. At some point, the Autobots had stopped repairing and rehabilitating their mentally damaged troops. They chose instead to culture their broken minds as _character_ and _freedom of choice_.

The Decepticons, once they'd regained their own stability, tended toward calling it _scary_. They regarded the Autobots on Earth as berserk shock troops. The defense mounted on behalf of the humans of Earth was too fanatic for comfort. The now-sane Decepticons were more than a little wary of fighting those kind of troops. No matter how elite - or comparatively sane - the Decepticon, he could be taken out by an Autobot who thought a suicidal fight to the death was an acceptable sacrifice.

That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, however. Scary as all-get-out, yes, but those kind of Autobots were also the kind of Autobots who might believe that Megatron would stay on one isolated, worthless little planet to fight losing battles over energy and pride. Might believe, and did indeed.

The Decepticons watched in somewhat fascinated disbelief as their newest operation went into action. Part of the Elite returned to Cybertron as Shockwave redirected the spacebridge to other worlds, different resources. The other Elite Decepticons stayed on Earth, playing distraction.

It shouldn't have worked. The Autobots never should have fallen for it. It was just too…obvious.

As Frenzy and Rumble put it when first given their assignment in this plan, "Look at the shiny thing!"

"Ooo, so shiny."

"Yep. Now, you keep looking at the shiny thing."

"What's that over there?"

"Not a shiny thing. See the shiny thing?"

"It is very shiny. What was I looking at?"

"The shiny thing!"

"Right."

Thundercracker summarized what everyone was thinking after one particularly moronic plot by Starscream nearly got the entire planet blown up: "I can't believe they're falling for it."

"**I** can't believe that almost worked," Starscream said back. "It should have been physically impossible. In every simulation, my device utterly failed."

"So what happened?"

Starscream shrugged, an annoying gesture they'd all picked up through constant exposure to human culture. "Shockwave is rewriting the laws of physics as we speak. What took you so long?"

The question was directed at Megatron, who leveled a repressive glare on the indignant jet. "I was not expecting to actually need to stop you."

"Neither was I!" the Air Commander snapped. "But I could hardly surrender without reason!"

"Don't be an idiot! A simple mechanical failure would have provided enough of an excuse. In the future, remember that my forces are a distraction - **not** expendable." He looked surprised when Starscream threw up his hands and stomped away muttering something about compensating for reality.

Despite the frustration of still not being able to destroy Optimus Prime, just knowing where the blasted Autobots were and keeping them corralled there was a triumph for the Decepticons. Megatron's plan seemed ridiculous from Earth, the antics of the Decepticons increasingly silly as they made buffoons of themselves, but from Cybertron…

From Cybertron, they could see the larger stage and the play upon it. The Decepticons' campaign of conquest began again, now that their forces had rejoined and been strengthened with Megatron's return. Armed with the spacebridge and no longer facing a united Autobot front, it was almost easy.

The few, scattered Autobot resistance groups left on Cybertron could only see increased Decepticon activity from a distance through Shockwave's strict security. He continually sent out his drone armies to harass those Autobots who dared reveal themselves. Live Decepticon patrols were run more frequently, pushing the resistance cells outward, and all that could be spied from a distance was a sudden energy influx. Lights and factories were coming online. The Decepticon units were all busy. _Something_ was happening. The Autobots just didn't know _what_.

On Earth, Megatron's dramatically overdone attacks seemed all the explanation needed for the kicked-beehive of activity around Shockwave's tower. Megatron seemed completely mad to the Autobots. He erratically flailing about on Earth like he'd lost a few essential lines of code somewhere. Most days, Starscream openly agreed with that assessment. It just so happened that the way he said it had more admiration than disgust in the mix. Well, when there were no Autobots around to here him say it that way, anyway.

The Elite Decepticons all kept an erratic schedule of rash hijinks and blatant treason in the project. Their chaotic power-grabbing infighting served a sober purpose: they were never visible on Earth all at once. Their carefully-planned frenetic stupidity gave watching humans and Autobots the impression of a full base, however. Starscream amped up his treachery and the volume of his screech, using it to maximum irritation. The Insecticons ate everything in sight and generated clones wherever they went, and several places they weren't supposed to be. Soundwave borrowed and reformatted Cassetticons from other hosts, leading the Autobots to assume he had more Cassetticons than previously thought. He confounded suspicious optics with a swarm of the little spies. Frenzy and Rumble helpfully took up the habit of switching paintjobs at random. If the Autobots didn't know how many or which Cassetticons to count for, they couldn't possibly tell when one or two were missing.

Soundwave assigned cover missions to whoever had the chutzpah to draw Autobot fire and attention, and under the resulting madhouse activity, specialist crews zipped through the spacebridge back to Cybertron. From there, they were shipped to whatever off-world battalion needed the extra support.

Shockwave sometimes felt more like he was directing a play instead of coordinating a war. From loyal supporter to stage coach, shuffling the actors about from day job to war and back again. Moving props and characters about backstage and making sure the audience couldn't see what was happening between acts.

"Incoming troop transport through spacebridge access 14c-8," went one communiqué between worlds. "Specialist reinforcement request granted. Substitution of officers in lead formation made: Thrust, Dirge, and Ramjet."

"Understood. Unit commander requests explanation for substitution."

"Starscream is needed on Earth," Shockwave deadpanned. "He's betrayed Megatron."

"Again?"

More than once, the Air Commander came through the spacebridge from Earth injured from his latest attempt at taking over the Decepticons. He immediately shot off to the frontlines to command the flight ranks, usually trailing a protesting medic still trying to repair him. Thundercracker and Skywarp were under special orders to ground him on the Cybertron side of the spacebridge if he came back with obvious battle damage - as opposed to 'beaten by Megatron damage,' a wide category which conveniently concealed exactly how often Megatron's Second was off Earth conquering other worlds.

The Constructicons made off with Megatron whenever the Decepticon ruler traveled to the frontlines himself, minutely examining him for signs of combat that might give their massive deceit away. Decepticons in the underwater base took to randomly brawling in the common rooms to cover minor damages.

The introduction of combiner teams to Earth made the battles more serious, but at the same time…more bizarre. Dinobots? Who the frag came up with _that_ bright idea?

"It's an escalation of stupidity," Megatron said, stuck somewhere between disbelief and exasperation when the Autobots somehow pulled victory out of seeming defeat _yet again_.

Starscream could not be reached for comment due to laughing until his vocalizer blew.

The Constructicons sulked for a week out of sheer spite. Future digs were purposefully done as ruinously as possible in known dinosaur fossil sites.

"This is not what I imagined frontline fighting to be like," Hook mused, as if Cybertron's most prized build team would ever be exposed to the dangers of the battlefront, gestalt or no. "Constructing a weapon 'for the glory of the Empire and destruction of our enemies,' yes, but slapping together a giant purple gryphon 'for the distraction of the Autobots' just does not have the same ring about it."

Skywarp grinned. He'd interrupted the Constructicons' work on a much more important building project to deliver the newest orders from Megatron. "You could always engrave that on the side."

"'For the distraction of the Autobots' seems like a counterproductive slogan."

"I meant the part about destroying enemies and glory."

"…it's a **giant purple gryphon**."

"Well. Yeah." Skywarp had the grace to look a bit embarrassed. Even at his worst during the Earth-mad days, he wouldn't have thought a giant purple gryphon fortress to be either threatening or a good idea.

These days, it was a brilliant piece of work for the exact reason everyone thought it to be utterly stupid. Some things were so ridiculous that the Autobots had to believe it; that human saying _"Truth is stranger than fiction"_ turned to the Decepticons' advantage in these instances. Giant purple gryphon fortress? Brilliant!

Plus, after a thirty-six hour marathon of building the Purple Gryphon Debacle, the Constructicons almost celebrated their return to such topics as an in-depth discussion over possible supply transportation solutions. Getting supplies to and from the spacebridge to off-world troops was boringly mundane compared to the bizarre designs Megatron requested they pull out of their afts, but necessary for the Empire. Being included in the Earth project did make them feel needed, though.

Which wasn't always a good thing. Sometimes the Constructicons got a little overenthusiastic in helping their leader fool the Autobots. The Stunticons were one of those mistakes the Decepticon faction as a whole winced over, and the Constructicons just kind of mumbled something along the lines of, "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

Shockwave flatly refused to let the crazy car-combiner team through the spacebridge onto Cybertron until a competent medic had a look at their scrambled minds. But they _were_ really good at drawing Autobot attention and ire, so Megatron decreed that the Stunticons would stay on Earth until the distraction finished. On Earth, they fit right in with the antics of the Autobots.

In the meantime, they humiliated the rest of the Decepticon Empire in the name of authenticity.

"Do you ever get the feeling we're not being told something?" Breakdown asked Wildrider nervously after they'd rounded a corner in the base and interrupted a conversation between Skywarp and Thundercracker. The two jets had stared at the two Stunticons for a moment before Skywarp started giggling and Thundercracker smirked. The two cars had walked on, but Breakdown had the overwhelming feeling that, up until that moment, the conversation had consisted of more than laughing at Skywarp's latest prank victim.

Bruticus? Well, that was more complicated. It was true that Starscream broke the Combaticons out of prison. It was true that he'd been crafty enough to try and take over the Decepticons using them, because Starscream really was a conniving bastard with too much ambition for his own good.

What the Autobots _hadn't_ seen was the animated debate beforehand between Shockwave, Bombshell, and Starscream. The idea had been to incorporate Earth into the rehabilitation process for Decepticon incarceration. Otherwise, it was ludicrous to think one lone Decepticon traitor could break out an entire combiner team without cooperation from the jail itself. Starscream was good, but if it'd come down to Air Commander Vs. Entire Jail Guard Ranks, well, the Air Commander wasn't going to win that one.

The fact that Megatron banished Starscream after the incompetent 'Take Over Attempt #340' plan became an actual threat to his rule was the only truth in the whole façade. Megatron trusted the his Air Commander to conquer worlds for the Decepticon Empire, but nobody was stupid enough to trust a Decepticon - any Decepticon - who controlled a criminally-inclined combiner team.

Fortunately for Starscream, by the grace of luck and quick thinking did he get the opportunity to win back Megatron's favor. He managed to conceal the extent of Decepticon activity on Cybertron before Optimus Prime discovered it. The Combaticons, after they'd been pounded to scrap and had their situation _thoroughly_ explained to them, meekly submitted to rehabilitation on Earth. It was either that, or the alternative of a complete mind-wipe. Not that they were exactly happy with their decision, but they hadn't had an abundance of choices: act the part of morons and fools, or be permanently erased.

"Out on probation," Swindle moaned. "My contacts are never going to take me seriously again."

"Dignity, thy name is not mine own. We were doing better on the asteroid," Blast Off muttered, then flinched as one of the Combaticons' probationary officers looked over sharply.

Onslaught made tiny _Take it back!_ gestures behind Shrapnel's back, but Brawl gleefully claimed the common room's couch to watch the Insecticon dress down the shuttle into a mumbled litany of "Yessir, sorrysir." The only entertainment better than watching a tiny Insecticon cut a massive shuttleformer off at the knees was watching Starscream knock some cooperation back into Vortex. That was harder for Brawl to watch, however. The helicopter had been known to flee across half this miserable planet trying to escape flight practice. Vortex was technically part of the air ranks, and the Air Commander was bound and determined that he fly with the others - even if he had to be chased down and dragged shrieking into formation.

Regardless of Stunticon ignorance, Constructicon boredom, or Combaticon reluctance, the war on Earth continued. It just so happened that the war on other worlds advanced. With the spacebridge at his command, Megatron put into place a careful farce. It was a balance of insanity and cunning, and against all logic, it succeeded.

But all things must come to an end. Eventually, security would fail. Somebody would screw up. The operations off-world would require reassigning the Elite from the distraction assignment. Something would end the Earth drama. The Decepticons were acting under a time limit, and the clock was ticking down.

Until then, they would punch out one-liners like a cheap holovid:

Megatron bellowed, "Do not try my patience, Prime!" as the Autobot leader took a stand and declared, "You'll never win!"

And none of the Autobots knew why the Decepticons ranks collapsed laughing, apparently at random.


	2. Improv Act

**Title: **Improv Act

**Warnings: **_"Well, of COURSE Starscream's dead!"_

**Rating: ** G

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Shockwave, Starscream, Skywarp, & Thundercracker

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **_Afterward, Megatron found Shockwave's casualty report hilarious_.

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><p>Sometimes, the inevitable wasn't as inevitable as it seemed. Especially when Shockwave saw it coming.<p>

Another day, another mission. Shockwave's Tower was a beehive of clandestine activity preparing to send another brigade of Decepticons through the spacebridge to another world, to start yet another conquest. Drone reconnaissance had reported a planet with abundant resources, but on the heels of that information had come video of huge, sprawling cities full of lights. The civilization seemed highly advanced, and that called for a well-planned invasion instead of mere raiding.

Shock troops and ground support would be necessary, but the air above the cities teemed with aircraft. That meant a lot of air support would be needed to take on the people of this world. However, the skies had been windswept and iridescent with heavy metals, which also meant most of the air ranks needed to be refitted for filters on their intakes in order to protect their engines.

And where the majority of the air ranks went, so went the Air Commander.

"Ah, slag **me**," Skywarp had moaned right before the Constructicons tackled the lead trine for intake modifications. "Not the face, not the face!"

Shockwave coordinated the war effort from his tower, speaking as Megatron's voice on Cybertron as the Decepticon Empire expanded. In technical terms, he punted Decepticon warriors left or right depending on Megatron's orders. In much the same way, Starscream acted as the warlord's hand in battle. He fought in the front lines even as Megatron distracted Optimus Prime back on Earth. They all knew their roles. They all knew that, eventually, the Autobots were going to catch on to what they were doing, and continued conquest was going to get a whole lot harder from then on.

It just so happened that that day was not today.

The last of the brigade had been transported already. Starscream's wing had come from Earth only hours ago, since they'd had to put in a last appearance to the Autobots on Earth. Being the last through was necessity, not choice, as the filter-intakes installed by the Constructicons were large and obvious and couldn't be fitted on while still on Earth. That meant Starscream had to slag off Megatron publically and get sent to Cybertron as part of Megatron's parting 'Get out of my sight!' order, and _then_ get the filters installed. Commanding an invasion from the back with real-time reports unavailable made for a grumpy Air Commander while the Constructicons worked.

The spacebridge was spooling up, energy connecting across the universe with its receiver. The three jets stood inside looking annoyed (Starscream), bored (Thundercracker) and irritated (Skywarp claimed the air filters itched like cosmic rust). Business as usual, basically, at least when 'usual' was conquest and deception in the same day.

Shockwave nearly suffered pump failure when an entire wall of his tower suddenly collapsed, spewing broken drones and Autobots into the room.

Starscream shrieked unholy dismay, but Shockwave beheld a moment's inspiration like a Decepticon on Earth spotting an escape route from the Stunticons' latest fiasco. "No!" he yelled, straining his normal impassiveness and ensuring that the horde of Autobots looked squarely at him instead of the suspiciously-modified group of Seekers. "Don't fire! The spacebridge will malfunction!"

Predictably, one of the Autobots took a shot at the nearest console. It exploded.

Shockwave couldn't have gotten better results if he'd held up a cue card.

That was all the time needed for the spacebridge to complete its power-up and actually beam the Elite Decepticons away, but under the cover of the initial chaos, Shockwave keyed an emergency code into the console he stood at. Things started exploding everywhere: wall panels blew out into the middle of the room and took out two Autobots in the way; the floor buckled and heaved under their feet, belching fire upward; the ceiling crackled, creaked, and gave every indication it was about to collapse; computer screens flared a dizzying array of psychedelic colors and spat miniature lightning bolts in every direction.

Shockwave stumbled and fell, yelling in patently overdone panic, "You've destroyed them! You've destroyed us all!"

The Autobots grabbed a few energon cubes and fled his tower, congratulating themselves all the way and not even vaguely aware of what they'd failed to uncover. Shockwave wobbled back onto his feet - sometimes only having one hand really was a disadvantage - and entered another code into the nearest console. It stopped the chain of flashbang bombs he'd installed around the room and disabled the program causing the computers to emit extra electricity. The light and noise subsided. Thing stopped shaking crazily.

The one-opticked loyalist looked around at all the cosmetic damage to be fixed and nodded in satisfaction. The thing about seeing the inevitable coming was that a logical Decepticon could put contingence plans in place against it. Business as usual, with a slight twist on the day's definition of 'usual.' Megatron would commend him for this.

A ready-light beeped steadily from the communication console, and Shockwave strode across the unstable floor paneling to answer it. "Starscream. I presume your arrival was less celebrated than your death?"

"Oh, is that what happened? Interesting." Completely unruffled by the news of his own death, Starscream eyed the damaged room and shook his head. "What did the empty-headed fools take?"

Shockwave took a quick inventory. "They've stolen all the energon cubes from the instant-response kit the medics insist be kept near the spacebridge." It had saved a few Decepticon lives in the critical dash from spacebridge to Medical Center, which meant he'd have to restock it or the medics would whine to the Constructicons, who would then shunt his building projects to the end of their wait list. A bothersome chore, but hardly the end of the Empire. "The likelihood of discovery is nonexistent. If I leave the damage, they will continue to believe in your death until it is proven otherwise."

"I'll have time to fully subdue the planet, then," the Air Commander mused. "Excellent. Contact Megatron and inform him of the changed timetable for the invasion, and of my tragic demise. I'm sure he'll have trouble keeping a straight face." He scowled suddenly. "Wind and weather ground me! My supply chain just got cut off cold!"

"Pillaging the natives! My favorite form of troop deployment!" Skywarp's voice put in from offscreen.

"That's not a reliable method of resupply," Thundercracker said back, deep voice coming from further away and growing more distant as he moved. "Horizonline! How soon can we have a solar energy collector set up? We'll need fuel by…when our…first…"

"Resupply efforts can be undertaken by the other worlds with spacebridges," Shockwave said, mentally shifting resources along alternative routes to the newest warfront. Cybertron's spacebridge being temporarily 'destroyed' would be more of a problem than he'd initially thought; it stranded several garrisons off-planet until they could connect their own spacebridges to conquered planets closer to Cybertron. It wasn't an impossible situation, and he was certain Megatron would prefer it over their massive deception being uncovered by the Autobots. Still, it wasn't ideal. "Set supply priorities and update upon engagement with the enemy."

Starscream blew air out his intakes, briefly framing the screen in a glittery cloud of heavy metal that had already caked in the filters. "Other than the air itself becoming lethal to half my forces, our initial supplies should last until Skywarp's primary mission objective is fulfilled." Skywarp crowed _"Yes!"_ in the background. "The metal concentration is denser than expected," the Air Commander continued over the sound of his trinemate assembling a strike squad for looting. "I'm seeing a correlation between higher winds causing the toxicity to spike in higher altitudes. The worse the weather, the poorer our engine performance." He looked off to the side and frowned. "My strategist is having fits. He's recalculating probabilities for dogfights with the natives' aircraft. If the natives hide in lower altitudes during calmer weather, I won't be sending in the flight ranks except in high altitude bombing runs. Order the Constructicons to assemble a better filtration system for the flyers. I'll capture aircraft for analysis and work on a makeshift solution from this end."

"Acknowledged." Shockwave made a few notations and sent off messages to both Supply and Engineering.

Supply would declare rearranging their transportation chains to be an impossible task, then do it anyway. Engineering would waste time sniping with internal memos until someone actually got design specs back from the Constructions, whereupon a blitz of productivity would occur. The part that interested him was the ultimate result, not how it happened. In theory, logic ruled in his Tower. In practice, nothing got done unless there was utter chaos among the various Decepticon divisions, creating a seething mass of creativity, bureaucratic backstabbing, and competitive complaint marathons. Trying to impose efficiency on said chaos would only screw things up. Only an idiot commander interfered in his command's methods of production.

Offscreen, Skywarp was singing a rendition of an odd song; something about _"Intergalatic, planetary, planetary, intergalactic - piracy!"_ An appropriate theme song for the mission, but Shockwave had never heard the song before. That didn't surprise him much, as Skywarp had always had a better grasp on popular culture than him.

Starscream seemed to be giving his exuberant wingmate a repressive glare. "I thought life was supposed to be easier once you're dead," he said dryly.

"An easy life after death is as improbable as Prime abandoning his faction to fall in love with Megatron."

The Air Commander looked alarmed, attention snapping back to the screen. "Don't say that. The Autobots on Earth do weirder things on a daily basis."

Shockwave thought that terribly unlikely. But as he closed communications with Starscream and prepared to contact Earth to deliver his after-action 'casualty report,' he reflected that strange things _did_ tend to happen on Earth. He should make a contingency plan. Just in case.

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><p><em><strong>[ AN:**__ The song Skywarp is mangling is the Beastie Boys' "Intergalactic."__**]**_


	3. Just Act Natural: Ding Dong

**Title: **Backstage: Just Act Natural

**Warnings: **Drunken Stunticons, implied violence, mental torture; looking "behind the scenes" of G1's funny Decepticon villains.

**Rating: ** G

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Thrust, Dirge, Ramjet, Stunticons, Thundercracker, Skywarp, Starscream

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **_New Beginning_

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><p>Drag Strip was in the lead, of course. That was a given. More interesting was the fact that he was walking backwards, humming along with his teammate's singing as he sipped from a cube of high grade.<p>

"Ding dong, the witch is dead! Wicked, wicked witch…ding dong!" Wildrider sang, half overcharged and half just crazy-happy as he reeled down the corridor. Breakdown and Dead End followed more slowly; Breakdown's nervous demeanor was a little more cheerful than normal, and even Dead End sported a tiny smile. It was a good day to be a Stunticon

Three jets down, three to go.

Motormaster had toasted the Air Commander's demise with an enthusiasm usually reserved for running Autobots off the road and, after laughing uproariously for an hour straight, had passed out in the Stunticons' common room. The other Stunticons were taking the opportunity to go out looking for other parties to crash. Why not? Motormaster would be hungover in the morning, and they might as well make the best of it while they could.

The lack of joy in the halls was a little surprising. Skywarp's mischievous streak had targeted everyone at one point or another. Thundercracker hadn't been as hated, but he hadn't exactly been liked. Starscream had been the highest-ranking afthead this side of the galaxy, and he'd been universally hated. Megatron had cursed up a storm over losing half his Elite Seekers in the spacebridge accident, but only until he'd had time to process the full implications.

Soundwave's impassive announcement over the base's comm. system had been underscored by deafening laughter in the background as the tyrant's mirth got the better of him. Starscream was dead! Prince of the skies and whatever other slag the arrogant glitch had claimed to be, and he'd been taken out by a mechanical malfunction? _HA!_

"Ding dong!" Wildrider cheered, and Drag Strip raised his cube in salute to the strange - but completely fitting - Earth song.

Unfortunately for the remaining high grade in the cube, right then the Coneheads rounded the corner and nearly knocked Drag Strip off his feet. Two wings and a shoulder smacked the Stuncticon in the back and head. Translucent pink energon sloshed into his face as he stumbled into the wall, but he rebounded with ability honed by heavy drinking and battle. "Whoaaaaa, hey! **Watch** it, flyboys!"

They eyed him with distaste and split to walk around him without sparing a word. Helm sparking - he'd tied bunches of human fireworks to the spikes - and arms spread as if to hug them, Wildrider blocked the way as effectively as a wall as he swung into another verse of the song. The three jets came to an immediate halt. Who knew if Stunticon stigma spread via touch, after all?

"Move," Dirge ordered, voice low and threatening. He raised his arm to point a machine gun at the most visibly insane of the Stunticons and found himself, to his shock, holding a mostly-full cube of high grade.

Wildrider whirled to grab another for himself from Dead End and spun back around. He apparently felt the need to perform for an unwilling audience, as he proceeded to swig from it and do a bizarre dance for the Coneheads. Both at the same time; what talent. "Wicked witch is dead, is dead!" he sang out, multicolored fireworks spritzing outward in time with the music as his energy levels spiked with sheer happiness. "Ding dooooong!"

Breakdown edged behind his crazy teammate subtly, peering almost shyly over his shoulder at the openly gaping jets, but Dead End sighed heavily. He adroitly sidestepped around his teammate's odd shuffling dance in the middle of the corridor. There was experience he obviously wished he didn't have in that movement. One could only imagine how much practice the Stunticons had in dealing with Wildrider's antics.

He snatched the cube back from Wildrider and calmly extended it in offer to the closest jet. "It won't end our suffering, but it certainly helps us endure in this case."

It seemed to take some effort, but Ramjet managed to close his mouth. He eyed the proffered cube and shook his head quickly. Dead End sighed again. Fragging jets and their overweening pride wouldn't let them drink with the 'ground-pounders,' no matter the event. So much for hoping things would relax a bit with Starscream and his dumb-aft wingmates dead. He should have known better than to expect any form of improvement. Ever.

By habit alone, the cube Wildrider had shoved into his hands had made it halfway to Dirge's lips. The Conehead hadn't even noticed, he'd been so caught in staring at Wildrider.

Thrust caught his arm and tore the cube away. "Don't you **dare**. You wanna end up like them?" Dead End's visor narrowed, annoyance scraping his apathy like leaves skittering across a gravestone. Behind him, Wildrider's ecstatic song had dropped back into humming, but Breakdown's engine thrummed unhappy notes through the metal floor of the hallway. It was always like this; the other Decepticons just…talked about them like the Stunticons weren't even there. It was infuriating and frustrating and, worst of all, they couldn't even protest. Combiner team or not, the Stunticons were the youngest and least experienced Decepticons on Earth.

Thrust gingerly held the cube with just the tips of his fingers and ever-so-carefully placed it on the floor near the wall, then took a precautionary step back. "The Constructicons still won't say one way or another if we could catch something from them. They're so unsanitary they're swimming in Earth bacteria, anyway. I mean, come on. They use the stupid humans' **car washes** instead of the washracks." Breakdown's engine revved, and sparks snapped and glittered around Wildrider's head. The craziest Stunticon shook his head, determined not to be brought down; intentional ignorance required forcefully breaking into song again, apparently. Dead End openly glared when Thrust merely sneered at Wildrider's newest round of – deliberate - antics.

Dirge glanced at him but seemed to be listening to Thrust's continued lecture: "Who knows what they're contaminated with? They've probably filled their databanks with stuff from the Internet. Really, it's just not safe…"

"Aw, don't be like that, wings! Wildrider's a nutter, but he's jusss…just happy 'cause the Screammander's outta commission." Too overcharged to be offended or even really follow the jet's disdainful words, Drag Strip smiled wide and clapped a companionable hand on Thrust's shoulder. The Seeker stopped talking about something - filthy planets and going native? - and froze into a wide-opticked statue.

All of the other Decepticons had some kind of Earth loathing, which always came off as extreme to Drag Strip. He liked the humans. Use 'em and let 'em die, _he_ said.

Seemed a shame to be concerned about that kind of thing on a day like today, anyway. Leave that to the Constructicons. They were good at sterilizing stuff. It seemed like Mixmaster was always ordering them to the repair bay for mandatory dousing with chemical disinfectants. The chemist had never liked the Stunticons. And Breakdown's paranoia had been justified time and time again by Long Haul and Scavenger stalking the team, just waiting for one to split off from the safety of the gestalt group and fall prey to a thorough scrubbing. That always riled Dead End, who then had to go and put on another wax coating. Primus help any of them if they went to the mainland to get the humans to polish them instead, because Long Haul had taken to staking out the entry tower in order to catch them on return. He'd drag whomever he could catch back to the repair bay to be sterilized - and scrubbed - again.

None of the Constructicons seemed happy with their job, come to think of it. Or at least Drag Strip had never seen them anything but disgusted when it came to repairing his team. Always with the "_How revolting-sterilize this immediately."_ and _"When did you install __**leather**__ upholstery? It's dead animal. __**Inside you.**__ That's sick and wrong!"_ and the occasional _"Oh dear Pri - kill it! Kill it with fire!"_

And the other Decepticons called the _Stunticons_ weird?

He noticed the cube high grade on the floor and let go of Thrust's shoulder in order to stoop down and pick it up. A loud thud rattled the wall, audible even above the vibration from Breakdown's engine. However, Drag Strip's balance had gone the way of the dodo the moment he bent over; he fell over into the wall at that exact moment and didn't wonder about the noise. Breakdown was always nervous, anyway, and Wildrider had probably kicked the wall while dancing.

Or, hey, it looked like Thrust had hit it. Drag Strip blinked mildly at the fist planted in the wall above his head, considering it. After a second, he used it to right himself again. Helpful, that.

Thrust appeared to be having some kind of paralyzed fit, twitching in place and glaring at his arm - or Drag Strip's hand on his arm, he couldn't tell - while Ramjet held a hand to his face. The black-faced Conehead was either laughing behind that hand, or possibly praying. He did look like he was gazing up at the ceiling with some form of religious fervor. Dirge looked oddly - afraid? Huh, strange. Drag Strip had only ever seen Dirge lose his nerve when battle situations got out of control, and he didn't _see_ any Autobots trying to climb on the jet's tailfins.

Just in case he'd missed an Autobot ambush, Drag Strip looked back down the hall. Nope, only fellow Stunticons down that way.

Dead End was staring with the special look of disinterest he reserved for those times they were all going to die of flat-out stupidity. Eh, that was nothing new. Although stupidity usually required - oh, there he was. Wildrider was giggling behind the Porsche, helm no longer giving off fireworks but optics bright with manic glee. Heeeeeey, maybe Breakdown's engine was beginning to affect the Coneheads! At least, that might explain their behavior.

Drag Strip shrugged and sipped his high grade. Not a bad party, all in all. It could use some more excitement, but he didn't feel like picking a fight right now. Maybe later.

"Must be nice to be in charge," he said conversationally, most of his attention dwelling on Starscream's awesome, awesome death.

Thrust jolted in place, optics snapping up from the Stunticon hand he'd been about to remove with extreme prejudice. "…what?"

"Y'know. Starscream? Gone?" Wildrider whooped, resuming his dance with an extra helping of exuberance at the reminder. "You may have noticed that he's, like, not here?" Drag Strip smirked and reached out to clink his cube against Ramjet's conical helm. The Seeker had let his hand slide down his face so he could stare at the yellow Stunticon with an expression that defied immediate identification. Dirge just looked taken aback, alarm subsiding into startlement at...at what, exactly? "C'mon, you can't tell me yer not glad he's bit it! Who got," Drag Strip's intakes hitched in a hiccup as his systems fought to deal with all the extra energy he'd been pouring into himself, "gots the promoting? Promotion. Whatever. Who's Air Commander now?" He wanted to congratulate the jet in person. Let bygones be bygones, all that car-versus-flyer rivalry slag out the metaphorical window with Starscream dead.

All three Coneheads were staring at him now, faces flat and neutral. When Drag Strip glanced back quizzically, he saw Dead End looking from them to the cube in his hand, obviously wondering if the high grade was playing tricks on him and how soon before said tricks killed him. Breakdown had started edging down the corridor back the way they're come. Motormaster might have been their own personal worst enemy on the team, but at least his rages and beatings were predictable. The jets were beginning to really freak the already high-strung Porche out.

Drag Strip just blinked, still smiling and friendly. One hand still comfortably gripped Thrust's arm. "It's gonna be so much quieter 'round here! Easier t' do," he looked briefly confused, "…stuff. Yeah. Stuff. Megs can stop watching 'is back, and you guys don't hafta put up with that slagger screeching his dumb aft off alla the time. Gonna be great, am I right?" He pulled himself closer to Thrust and nudged him with an elbow. "Amirite, eh? Yeah?" His systems were registering protest with how much high grade he'd been swilling, but he'd never felt better. _Ding dong, the witch is dead!_ "So who's the newest envoy - wha-? Naw, wait - **envy** of ya birdbots?"

They just stared.


	4. Just Act Natural: Dirge

**Title: **Backstage: Just Act Natural

**Warnings: **Drunken Stunticons, implied violence, mental torture; looking "behind the scenes" of G1's funny Decepticon villains.

**Rating: ** G

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Thrust, Dirge, Ramjet, Stunticons, Thundercracker, Skywarp, Starscream

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **__Odds of a million to one __

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><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

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><p>"Envy?" Dirge asked, level optics cold as a glacier and voice promising gradual, creeping death from that consuming ice.<p>

Skywarp remained sitting behind what had been Starscream's desk, unimpressed by the theatrics. Dirge used his ability to induce fear on one and all, but constant exposure to the subsonic noise produced by his engine had given most of the Earth-bound Elite partial immunity. If nothing else, it made it easier to tell the difference between induced and genuine fear. Skywarp knew he had nothing to fear from this jet. Not here, not now.

"You can't tell me you're not envious I was promoted," he said, tilting his head to study the Conehead standing in the Air Commander's – in _his_ office.

Dirge looked away, turning to study the sparse office. Starscream hadn't been enough of a fool to expose anything important to possible theft or vandalism, so there hadn't been much for Skywarp to move out or redecorate when he'd taken over both position and office. The black-and-purple jet had moved all the furniture around a bit, possibly just because he could. He'd set the desk at a right angle to the door instead of facing it as Starscream had positioned it; the shelving units now sat on either side of the door instead of lining the opposite wall. It appeared that Skywarp had filled them with junk from his quarters. Dirge couldn't tell what half the stuff was, nor did he care. The placement looked inconvenient and the decorations tacky, but Skywarp's taste in decorating wasn't the point.

The point wasn't what had been changed so much as the statement being made by the changes: **_I_**_ am Air Commander now,_ the room said. _Starscream is exiled from the Decepticon Empire. Air Commander Skywarp now stands by Lord Megatron's side_.

It was a reward for eons of loyalty. Skywarp had, at long last, triumphed over Starscream's superior flight ability and Thundercracker's quiet persistence. Success at last: Skywarp had been award the position every flyer in the ranks lusted for. Air Commander Skywarp, head of the Deception air ranks.

Skywarp had asked a completely relevant question about envy, but when Dirge met his optics again, there was nothing but unexpected reserve in the Conehead's expression. There was none of the sycophantic congratulations showered upon him by Thrust and Ramjet, or even the wry concession offered by Thundercracker. It was oddly unsettling.

"He didn't execute him," Dirge said instead, strangely removed from the powerplay. "He could have," should have, in all honesty, "but he didn't."

Skywarp stiffened indignantly as that struck right into the heart of his hidden insecurity. He didn't have to ask who 'he' was, nor who wasn't dead. Starscream had been _exiled_, not executed as a traitor should have been, either out of respect for ages in service to the Empire or…or…

"Megatron didn't need to," Skywarp said, but his dismissive tone fell flat into uncertainty. Even to himself, he sounded like he was trying to convince someone. "The Combaticons will turn on him soon enough. Exiling him on that asteroid is delayed execution out where the Autobots can't use it for their propaganda." A reasonable answer. A logical one that rang hollow as an empty grave, because all it meant was that Starscream _wasn't in it_. And so long as that grave was empty, there was the niggling question over whose body would ultimately be buried there.

A million to one chance that he'd return, but Starscream had played politics and wartime games for so long only historians remembered the name of the Air Commander before him. He held all the traces taunt, restraining every flyer with ambition in the air ranks like a fisherman reeling in nets full of sharks. Now that controlling hand had been removed by the Supreme Commander of the Decepticons, and the ropes had slipped away. Ambition had been freed.

Megatron had bestowed a title on Skywarp. It had not, pretensions of loyal service aside, been earned.

By the time that title had come to Starscream, he'd conquered the flight ranks as brutally as Megatron had taken Kaon. Starscream had choked every contrary voice and hung like a stranglehold around their necks. They'd all known he controlled them long before Megatron had finally deigned to acknowledge their prince, their captor, with a proper rank befitting his power over them. He'd gone before Megatron cloaked in invisible chain-links tying him to a network of assassins and informants, a thousand spying optics and ready mouths serving him, and he'd knelt before the warlord needing only that official turn of the key in the lock he'd forged around them. Megatron had granted it because that's what rank was. Officers just had fancy titles in the Autobots, but power could not be given in the Decepticon ranks. Decepticon officers took their power, and rank was granted based on that power.

When Starscream had pulled rank, it had tightened the garrote over the air ranks' throats. What did Skywarp have to pull but a couple of flimsy words before his name?

Already, poison words spread in their ranks. Dirge had heard from Ramjet, who'd heard it from Soundwave - who was now holding that favor over their heads, and with Starscream's garrote-string spiderweb gone, what would protect them from the communication officer's subtle manipulative threads now? - that Shockwave had put forth his own candidate for the position. Shockwave's candidate, who didn't have to stay on Earth playing an idiot half the time; who had a reputation and established network among the Cybertronian air ranks. A flyer backed by all the power of Megatron's one-opticked loyalist. Only the risk of compromising the massive deception on Earth and the difficulty of sneaking someone through the space bridge had prevented assassination attempts so far.

But there were far more effective ways to remove obstacles. Assassins were notoriously unreliable, especially when simple warfare provided _so_ many more opportunities for an Air Commander to, ah, fail his duty.

Thundercracker had already relocated across the base from their old quarters, citing that until a third mech entered the equation, it hardly made sense to pretend they were still a trine. Anyone with half a functioning mind could see the blue Seeker was trying to put distance between himself and the new Air Commander. Megatron would probably take Shockwave's candidate as the replacement jet for their wing, but Thundercracker had survived a rank-assembled trine before. He'd been placed in Starscream's wing by Megatron, and he'd accept whoever replaced the screechy Seeker with strict neutrality. Thundercracker had every intention of surviving the succession battle by taking himself out of the power game completely. Let Shockwave's candidate and _Air Commander_ Skywarp fight it out between themselves while he stood far, far off to the side, ready to hail the winner.

Dirge didn't have that kind of freedom. His trine had been promoted under Starscream. By Starscream's will had they kept their positions. If they played the odds right, they might keep their lives. The upcoming internal warfare in the air ranks was going to require choosing a side, and the Coneheads had already held counsel on this subject.

No way would Shockwave's candidate choose to keep them directly under his command here on Earth, well within backstabbing range. Not when the better option was to replace them with loyal troops from Cybertron, freshly promoted into the Elite and grateful to the mech who'd promoted them. That meant the Coneheads were going to come to _unfortunate_ ends here on Earth very quickly, or…well, it said something about the situation when even Thrust opted for the less blunt option of demotion. It'd be humiliating, yes, but voluntarily appealing to Megatron - through Soundwave, who'd smoothly made the offer with only the vaguest hint of what he expected in return for _that_ favor - for demotion from the Elite might just save their lives. Relocation back to Cybertron meant they'd have a better chance of hiding among the air ranks.

There was a million to one chance that Starscream would return, but Dirge gave Skywarp's continued survival even lower odds. He hoped rather morosely that he wasn't betting blindly on his own life.

Sp Dirge gazed back at the Air Commander and pondered how very temporary that title was. "No," he said slowly, "I don't envy you."

And whatever he heard beneath the icy fear in the Conehead's voice made Skywarp look away first.


	5. Just Act Natural: Thrust

**Title: **Backstage: Just Act Natural

**Warnings: **Drunken Stunticons, implied violence, mental torture; looking "behind the scenes" of G1's funny Decepticon villains.

**Rating: ** G

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Thrust, Dirge, Ramjet, Stunticons, Thundercracker, Skywarp, Starscream

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **___Running out of time ___

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><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

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><p>"I don't envy you," Thrust said to Thundercracker, and the blue Seeker shot him a murderous glare in return. The Conehead raised his hands defensively but couldn't wipe the smirk off his face. "Hey, just sayin'. Starscream's going to pound Skywarp into bitty pieces, and you're going to be the one stuck picking him up with a magnet."<p>

Ramjet kicked his wing as Thundercracker's lips twisted unhappily. "You really think we're going to get off that easy ourselves?" Ramjet hissed at him when Thrust turned to retaliate. "None of us lifted a finger to help Screamer. You **know** he's going to remember that!" At Ramjet's side, Dirge shifted uneasily and glanced around the office as if searching for something. Reassurance, maybe, but that was in low supply. Tacky decorations, on the other wing, were running rampant. Skywarp's room décor ran toward tasteless.

Not that Thrust needed any - reassurance _or_ interior design tips. "Give me a break!" he laughed. "Nobody was stupid enough to help him! We all knew Megatron would win, and not even Starscream could expect us to go into exile for him." Except that their temporarily-deposed Air Commander really could expect that, stuck-up dumbaft that he was. But Thrust wasn't thinking about that, nope. "He'll yell at us for a while, probably make an example of Skywarp, and by next week things'll be back to normal." He cocked an optic toward Thundercracker, who'd paced halfway across the office to stand at attention in front of the desk. "Like I said: I don't envy you trying to find where Skywarp's nose ends up. I'll check my thrusters before I leave, but - "

"Shove it out your turbines," Thundercracker snarled, not budging an iota. Someone could take a picture of him to show new recruits: How To Stand At Attention In Front of An Empty Desk. "If **any** of us walk out of this room, it's going to be by the direct intervention of Primus."

There was a beat of startled silence, but then Dirge rumbled, "Swindle's been taking bets on that."

They looked at him, surprised all over again. The Combaticons, so far as any of them knew, were still in pieces on Cybertron. "Shockwave hasn't even finished reprogramming them!" Thrust sputtered. "How in the smelter is Swindle collecting **bets** already?"

"He really is that good," Thundercracker muttered, expression caught somewhere between anxiety and admiration.

"Timed message drop into the comm. network," Dirge said. "Check the queue." All communications from Cybertron went through four layers of encoding. It ensured that only the right mechs got the messages, but that kind of data scramble caused a message back-up on the Earth side every time the space bridge opened and allowed the Cybertron network to dump information over the connection to Earth side. If the Decepticons were busy, they pushed aside checking their messages until later. In this case, the jets had been more concerned with Bruticus - and then Starscream's triumphant return - to take the time to check comm. updates. "Apparently Starscream was quite…vocal…about what he thought about us before he took off from the asteroid," Dirge summed up for them as they accessed Swindle's all-personnel message. "Swindle set up everything before he even knew for sure Starscream made it."

Meaning that Swindle had assumed Starscream would make it no matter what. Which wasn't all that surprising. If anyone could make it through Bruticus, Megatron, Shockwave, _and_ the Autobots, it would be Starscream.

That would be kind of funny and even a source of twisted pride in their fellow Seeker if not for Starscream's apparent deadly intentions toward them. Those intentions were spelled out in every vicious syllable by Swindle's best impartial business voice. Dirge's wings slowly fanned back as the message played, and Ramjet's locked into place. Thundercracker just stood straighter, stiffening with every sick word. Swindle had obviously not needed to elaborate; Starscream had a turn of phrase all his own that came through _quite_ clearly.

Starscream, who had blazed out of exile and back into Megatron's favor in the course of an hour. It had given them no time to make their own plans or even process what was happening until they'd been standing back on Earth saluting the restored Air Commander. The order to assemble in his office had come like toothed jaws of a trap closing around their wings, holding them down and tearing away any hope of escape. Disobey and face Megatron's fusion cannon as traitors. Obey, and…well, really, what could he do? Really.

Thrust reached for bluster, pulling it over what definitely _was not_ fear even as he strode over to join Thundercracker in front of the empty desk. His trine clicked into place at his heels, and they weren't clustering together like frightening birds. They were in _formation_. This was a formality, not an execution!

"He needs us too much to kill us," he assured Ramjet, glancing back to check that the other Conehead was in position, military regulation distance between them and no visible flaws as he snapped to attention. _Looks good._ Dirge was on his other side, stance technically correct but optics dim and sulky, lowered to stare at the floor. _Looks miserable._ "It's not the first time he's beaten us down," he said, voice louder than necessary but still sounding like a bad attempt at comfort. "Hurts like the slagging pit, but repairs fix all. We'll fly again. Don't let it get to you!"

Thundercracker threw a sidelong look at him. "And what exactly are you going to do to stop him before it's too late for repairs?"

"Well, yes, I, um." All the confidence he projected couldn't come up with a coherent answer for that. Not thinking about it, _not thinking about it._

Behind him, Thrust could hear the quiet rattle as Dirge gave a convulsive shake. His spark sank. That sound signaled the situation officially dropping out of their control. Dirge could only hold up under pressure when he had control, and Starscream specialized in taking that control away. The Air Commander held their leashes again, and they'd been very, very bad dogs. The kind of disloyal wardogs that turned on their owner. Had turned on him indeed, all their past pledges of fealty just so many broken promises when opposed by Megatron. A smart owner would put such bad hounds down before they turned on him again. After all, who kept wardogs who fought and killed and obeyed another owner? Starscream would never know what side of the battlefield such mutts stood on.

What could the Air Commander's hounds offer him in return for their lives? He held their leashes, hounds let out of the kennel to fight under his orders, and no one knew better how easily those orders could twist battleplans into death traps for bad dogs.

_That_ was power. _That_ was control, and Dirge shook because they had none. Thrust wouldn't show it, but he felt that lack as acutely. Time didn't trickle away from them; it ran. Frag, it sprinted. The four jets standing rigidly at attention in the Air Commander's empty office felt it in the liquid coolant racing through their systems. Control stole the strength from the loose joints they shored up, and Thrust clamped his hands to his sides to keep them from trembling. Out of the corner of his optic, he could see panic slowly seeping into Thundercracker's face.

A moment later, panic hid behind a stoic mask as the door beeped and opened.

Skywarp stood in the opening, resignation written large across him and arms hanging limp at his sides. Blue fingers on his right wing tightened and relaxed, and the black-and-purple ex-Air Commander winced, just slightly. He walked into the room, stiff-limbed puppet with taunt strings, and behind him stood the puppetmaster. Starscream gave the wing in his grip a little push before letting go, and Skywarp hesitated.

"Take a seat, **commander**," the restored Air Commander invited, steel order hard beneath fake joviality, and Skywarp winced again.

Starscream stood at the entrance to what had been his office only six weeks ago, optics taking in every missing personal knick-knack, every scuff on the floor, every addition and subtraction. The desk Skywarp shuffled toward had been moved, as had the shelving units. The four Seekers who should have had their backs to him were instead standing side-on to the door. It gave him an interesting angle to study them at. They stood at perfect attention, wings and shoulders at precise angles and spacing absolutely spot-on. They stared unwaveringly at the wall above Skywarp's head as he sank into the sole chair in the office, and none of them dared to look at commander or ex-commander until ordered at ease.

Skywarp shifted about in the seat, unable to get comfortable. He studiously arranged his hands in his lap, looking down at them. A few seconds later his optics widened, and he jerked his hands up onto the desk, apparently realizing that holding them out of sight could be construed as a threat. He didn't raise his optics, choosing instead to watch his hands intently. The scrape of his fingers against each other sounded inordinately loud in the silence, but he couldn't seem to stop fidgeting, arranging and rearranging his hands over and over again.

_Stop it!_ Thrust urged silently, but even his normal need to speak out had been pushed down by the threat looming on the threshold. It disappeared completely when Starscream left the door and crossed the room in three swift steps. The Air Commander stopped short behind Skywarp with the predatory change from stillness to action and back that characterized raptors. The four Decepticons standing at attention in front of the desk were already motionless; the moment Starscream moved, even air intake halted. Thrust's fuel pump stuttered, afraid that faint whisper of internal systems could be heard.

Starscream stood in that unnatural stillness, letting it fray their nerves until the silence broke on the sound of another involuntary shiver from Dirge. He stayed unmoving for one more agonizingly long minute, standing sidelong to them but head turned oddly away so they couldn't see his expression. Skywarp's downturned face seemed frozen, dread and defeat battling for supremacy across it. Finally, almost mercifully, Starscream moved.

His head turned first, sweeping his gaze through the four jets before the desk like an axe through toothpicks. The rage there _burned_ them, but it had been caged and condensed by weeks of thought. It wasn't a Seeker standing behind Skywarp; it was a container for purest rage, distilled by time. Thrust couldn't help but recall Swindle's voice reciting the vindictive list of threats and plans secondhand. If his joints hadn't been locked into position, he'd have shuddered.

Starscream's angry gaze snapped to him anyway, catching some telltale sign and nailing him where he stood. It took actual effort, but Thrust managed to tear his optics away from those burning pits of hate and back to the wall. Behind him, however, there came the soft scrape of movement, the tiniest step taken in retreat, and the Air Commander's optics narrowed into laserbeams of censure. Thrust almost flinched. _No, Ramjet, you **idiot**_…

"You're before your commander, soldier," Starscream said, harsh voice quiet enough to make them strain to hear, and there was a sick fear in that. Starscream was never quiet. "I don't care how lax things have become in my absence," Skywarp's head ducked down further, "I am here now. You **will** stand at attention until ordered otherwise, or you will not stand at all. Do I make myself clear?"

Behind Thrust, Ramjet forced himself back into position. "Yessir."

Crimson optics glared, sharp and cutting as any knife. "I said, **do I make myself _clear?_**?"

They somehow managed to pull themselves even straighter, optics pinned to an invisible point above his head. "Yessir!"

He looked down at last, down to where Skywarp's hands had tensed into claws digging into the desk. He reached over the black-and-purple wing and gently picked up one hand in order to stroke it, caressing the joints with soothing fingers until, at last, the tension seeped away. When the hand lay limp within his own, Starscream placed it flat on the desk with a tender pat and shifted to reach over the other wing for the other hand. He repeated the process while Skywarp stared helplessly at the desktop and the other jets struggled with building terror. Their Air Commander did not touch them like a lover. To see him knead the stress out of Skywarp's hand so solicitously set off warnings lights in every corner of their minds.

Survival instincts wailed alarm, shouting at them to get out, _get away_, but they had to stand there. They had to watch out of the corner of their optics, unable to look away or openly watch unless permitted. They were trapped by regulation and rulebook as effectively as if he'd forced them to the floor with a foot on their backs and a gun to their helms.

Every line of the purple and black Seeker's body strained for escape, anticipating the blow soon to fall, yet he sat docile under his master's hand. The touch would turn painful at any moment, and this gentleness only made the wait more sinister. Their commander pet Skywarp with sweet insincerity, _good dog_, and they all knew it wasn't true. They'd been bad – bad wardogs, _shame shame_ – and knowing it made this all the worse. It made them that much more aware that the power he wielded over them let him toy with them this way.

"Shockwave," Starscream drew out, ostentatiously more interested in Skywarp's hand than what he was saying, "has tried to replace me." _Megatron **did** replace me,_ the soft touch said, _with **you**_. Skywarp's shoulders hunched, optics fixed downward as he braced for the blow. But Starscream couldn't strike out against the ruler of the Empire. Not so obviously, not when he'd barely earned back his return from exile by Megatron's good grace.

So he placed Skywarp's hand back on the desk, smoothing it flat on the surface and leaning casually on his replacement's wing to look at the four jets who hadn't followed him. "Having an officer that powerful outside the Elite divides the flight ranks. This is…unacceptable." _My air ranks, my followers, betrayed me for another outside the flyers. Megatron is Supreme Commander, but you pledged your lives to **me**. Where were you when Megatron threw me down?_ "He either needs to join the Elite," blue fingers slid behind Skywarp's air intake and under his helm, and Skywarp bit back a whimper as they slowly stole forward around his throat, "or somehow be, hmm, neutralized." Fingertips grazed the vulnerable, tender spot below Skywarp's chin, and a high-pitched whine came from the powerless Seeker. _Unforgivable_, whispered the intimate touch, and Skywarp's desperate optics sought futile contact with Thundercracker, then Thrust's trine.

They couldn't meet his gaze. Their own lives were on the line. The pathetic, silent beggar at the edge of their vision was on his own. Starscream had just laid down his demand in everything he hadn't said, and it was up to them to make the decision. Either bring Shockwave's candidate back to Earth, where Starscream would…make room…in his personal trine for a new wingmate, or kill the mech somehow. An assassination of a high-profile officer in the air ranks back on Cybertron, where Shockwave had spent the last 4 million years building his powerbase. Killing a mech Shockwave had spent the last 6 weeks promoting as his candidate for Air Commander wouldn't have been an easy task if they had a battalion. Four jets, even Elite Decepticon Seekers, didn't stand a chance.

They didn't stand a chance, anyway. They'd have to risk life and limb to assassinate this heavily supported, heavily protected mech, hoping frantically all the while not to be caught and executed for treason. And hoping that this trial would be enough to satisfy Starscream. Hoping that he would lighten their personal punishments enough to be bearable.

The easy choice would be to just extend the promise of promotion. No flyer, no matter how controlled by Shockwave, would turn down an invitation to join the Air Commander's wing. That fulfilled ambition, if not satisfied it, and Skywarp's trembling hands on the desk spelled out graphic warning against too much ambition. He knew what the easy choice - the _safe_ choice - was, too.

Thundercracker broke ranks enough to risk a shallow bow. "As you command, sir," he said, deep voice hoarse.

Starscream dipped his chin, smiling benevolently down at the ex-Air Commander quaking under his hand. "Command?" He bent to rest his forearm across the top of Skywarp's intake, other hand still occupied teasing the other jet's throat until Skywarp shook with suppressed fear. "I gave no command." Gloating crimson optics lifted to incinerate whatever illusion of comfort they'd managed to deceive themselves into believing. No official orders. Nothing to help them get through the spacebridge, no excuse to give or assignment to cite to Shockwave or Soundwave. Nothing at all to protect them from Megatron's wrath if they failed.

_You're on your own._

It effective crushed what little hope they'd scraped together. Defeated, even resigned, Skywarp lifted his chin in weak surrender and mewled as the fingers slowly, viciously clenched. The tiny, hopeless sound was clearly audible in the dead silence of the office, and Starscream's smile was so kind. "You are dismissed," he said, voice rasping layers of warm silken fury and satin sadist pleasure over cold revenge.

Thrust jolted in place, pent-up panic jerking him like a marionette through a salute. Behind him, his wingmates whirled in perfect time to match steps, marching retreat from the office. Skywarp didn't move, optics staring straight forward and hands laid flat on the desk. The last sight Thrust had of him was a picture of stark despair.

The Air Commander had let slip his dogs of war, and Thrust knew down to his ailerons that they'd come creeping back, proffering the spoils of battle and groveling like eager pups for the privilege of wearing his leash again. And maybe, just maybe, Starscream would let them serve again. _If_ they could survive that long.

"I'd have preferred a beating," Thrust said, and for once it wasn't bluster.


	6. Just Act Natural: Ramjet

**Title: **Backstage: Just Act Natural

**Warnings: **Drunken Stunticons, implied violence, mental torture; looking "behind the scenes" of G1's funny Decepticon villains.

**Rating: ** G

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Thrust, Dirge, Ramjet, Stunticons, Thundercracker, Skywarp, Starscream

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **____Scenario - in solitary confinement  
><em>___

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><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

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><p>New enemies generally did not concern Ramjet. He was the elite of the Elite, an undefeatable power in the air who could bring even the strongest fliers crashing down by targeting their weak points. If he happened to get to those weak spots by ramming through an ally or neutral? Oh, well. This was war, and he dismissed those less powerful than himself. Let them get angry! Pathetic little weaklings should have gotten out of his way.<p>

If they dared tried to start something with him afterward, they'd better be prepared for open warfare. Ramjet didn't do backstabbing gossip and political machinations. Those were the weapons of weaklings. Confrontations suited his style best of all, since head-on collisions and subtlty didn't mix.

Plain and simple, Ramjet believed Starscream's ambition to be a weakness. Starscream's strengths lay in powergames, and not physical power. Trying to take over the Decepticons had been a foolish mistake because Megatron was, like Ramjet in the air, undefeatable. For all Starscream's cleverness by enslaving the Combaticons and twisting the deception of the Autobots around back on Megatron, he remained too weak to challenge for leadership. Having that kind of ambition without a body to back it up was foolishness. Ramjet knew the truth: no matter how smart the mind, physical strength always, always won. Megatron was bigger and stronger, and Starscream lost because _he was weak_. The fact of life in the Decepticons was that strength triumphed over intelligence on the battlefield.

Off the battlefield, however, Ramjet had to rethink his straightforward philosophy.

Physical strength hadn't caused the complicated tangle of powerplays among Soundwave, Shockwave, and Skywarp. Physical threats had been secondary when Ramjet assessed the danger to his trine, because the threat of deactivation would have come only after the politics thoroughly shredded them. The air ranks on and off Cybertron had quickly descended into a shifty arena of verbal promises and rescinded oaths, sworn support and timely withdrawals of the same. If Starscream hadn't returned from exile - another exercise in mental manipulation, since the actual fighting hadn't turned Megatron's favor - Ramjet's entire trine would likely have ended up dead or demoted. Either way, the Decepticon Elite would have had a new set of wings on this dirtball planet.

Dropped into this middle of this unfamiliar territory, Ramjet had floundered. He made enemies far easier than allies, and his few contacts on Cybertron weren't willing to risk their own tenuous positions for him. Their lives on the battlefield, yes, but physical fights were easy. Taking on the likes of Shockwave meant far more than death threatened the losers.

By the time Starscream returned, Ramjet had almost been glad to see him.

Yet he'd been far more afraid of the exiled Air Commander than any fight he'd ever faced. Physical battles he could handle. Pain? He'd endured pain before. But Starscream hadn't chosen that method of discipline, and _that_ was terrifying.

Ramjet had stood at attention before Starscream and waited in dread for a beating that didn't come. Fists and guns, Ramjet trusted implicitly; they had betrayed Starscream, however, and the only power the restored Air Commander trusted to bring the traitors to their knees was what he himself wielded. And - as Ramjet had noted, and sneered at, and finally realized in dawning horror - Starscream was physically weak. So Starscream didn't use his fists.

He used his _mind_. The weapon that'd failed him in the power struggle against Megatron had been physical force, not mental power. The air ranks that didn't come at his command had failed him, not his own mind.

To Ramjet, the math seemed obvious. Five Seekers against one? The one lost. Except that Starscream smiled his cold, calculating smile, the smile that sent Dirge into a nervous breakdown and caused Thrust's knees to wobble alarmingly, and Ramjet's equations of brute force stopped adding up. The Air Commander gracefully soared back into his rank as if he'd never left, and he rewrote everything without resorting to a single punch thrown or shot fired.

Five Decepticons met their exiled commander, and they walked away as only four. Down one Seeker already, and the Air Commander hadn't even _mentioned_ the issues swirling invisibly between them. The very air in Starscream's office had shivered with the silent warning of incoming fire. It was a battleground Ramjet had absolutely no experience in, and he felt like he was missing half the battle. And missing information in the midst of war? Even he knew to fear that.

Thundercracker, calm and collected Thundercracker, ran himself ragged trying to plan an impossible assassination. His engine throbbed as maintenance ran down, rattling almost painfully with stess. Thrust and Dirge didn't sound much better. Ramjet was beginning to run hot himself, and Starscream hadn't laid a finger on him. When Ramjet stated the obvious - Just _promote Shockwave's candidate, alright?_ - they all looked at him like he'd suggested they shoot themselves instead. Which it felt like they'd done anyway, and Starscream didn't need to do anything. They'd do it to themselves.

He knew then that his philosophy had flaws, leaving him weaker than Starscream's ambition before Megatron's fusion cannon. The simple rules that governed Ramjet's life skewed sideways, and no matter how the Conehead obeyed them, he still came out in the wrong. Worse, the rules of physical warfare changed as well.

Win a battle against the Autobots? The reward for success mysteriously refused to manifest, and Ramjet carried Thrust away from the repair bay still crippled. The Constructicons looked right through them and totally failed to see their injuries. Show up for patrol? Soundwave blandly informed them that all their flight slots had disappeared, and Dirge began to morosely count the days between battleplans against the Autobots on Earth just for time outside of the ship. Flyers kept underwater didn't deal with their confinement well. They needed the open sky now denied them, but there were still battles - oh, but for some reason (what possible reason could it be?), suddenly all of the plans to distract or attack the Autobots didn't include the Seekers. Any of them. At all. So they were trapped under the ocean, wings twitching for open air, while Starscream allegedly caught up on a backlog of work and trained Vortex.

There was only so much of that they could take. "We don't have to tolerate this slag," he snarled at his wingmates, and he uneasily wondered why they only gave him tired looks in return.

They went to him, because what else could they do? They _had_ to leave the ship, _had_ to fly, but they couldn't without leave. So four big, bad Decepticons asked permission to enter the Air Commander's office, and they waited for that permission before risking so much as a hand on the door. They assembled ranks once inside, indignant and ready to demand answers from the red Seeker sitting casually behind his desk, but there was Skywarp.

Thundercracker was weak enough to flinch when he saw him. They'd been wingmates for ages, after all, and…to be fair, the Coneheads winced as well.

Their temporary, now ex-Air Commander had been unseen for days, but here he was: face gone blank and somehow meek as he sat on a spare chair in the corner and didn't even acknowledge their entrance. Starscream looked at them with an innocent face and hating optics, and Ramjet could almost see the dare. _Ask me_, Starscream challenged them silently, charm glittering poison-edged in his smile. _Ask me why you're confined to the ship. Ask me why Skywarp is here. Ask me why. Just give me the chance to tear you apart, and I will **give** you a reason._

And the words fell completely apart in their mouths.

"Hostage," Thundercracker said later, but he sounded uncertain with that conclusion. It was too easy. Too _physical_.

"What is he **doing** to him?" Thrust asked, and they looked at each other with matching expressions of confusion. Wondering, a little fearfully, if they could do that to someone. If they had the minds to match Starscream; if they could transmute their physical power into his ability to invent something ugly enough to not leave a mark.

They couldn't, however, and Ramjet's dumb, blunt courage cracked against the brittle razor of Starscream's wit. He could use his fists as cudgels, but Starscream didn't need to lift a finger in order to trap all of their sparks, expose them, and _twist_. They writhed on tenterhooks, captured and knowing and loathing it, and Ramjet suffered most of all. An enemy he couldn't confront, a battle with weapons he couldn't seem to grasp, broke him.

Skywarp couldn't stay in the Air Commander's office forever. When he emerged, he was brought to heel. The normally gregarious jet became a steady, quiet shadow at Starscream's beck and call. He lifted his optics in the occasional pleading glance at the others before looking down again. The Coneheads and Thundercracker had yet to find a solution to Shockwave's candidate, hovering with increasing apprehension on the verge of plan, and Starscream pointedly ignored the whole issue. He resumed commanding them as if nothing had ever happened, but his silent ultimatum stalked the four jets like a beast.

Inescapable, it sank teeth into their throats every minute of every slippery day, clawing, clawing _tick tock tick tock_ into their wings. It curled around Skywarp lovingly, purring threat. Ramjet could barely stand the sight of the purple-and-black jet, unable to face his own growing fear written on the ex-Air Commander's face. Thundercracker's plans became more desperate, the sound of his engine more alarming. Needed repairs and maintenance were adding up in them all, gradually degrading their performance. Or rather, it would have if they were allowed out of the underwater base, and that was the worst of all. They could feel the sky-mad need consuming them, but they didn't dare try to appeal to Megatron, they didn't dare…

The other Decepticons watched them, impassive but careful like bystanders at an accident treading on shattered glass. They watched, but they didn't help. Because Starscream had that power. Not raw power to win through strength, but power, and Ramjet felt as sick as if he'd hit sudden vertigo when he thought about it. They'd been condemned to solitary confinement as effectively as any solid door closing on a prison.

They hadn't known how bad it really was, though. Ramjet had thought they'd sunk as low and hopeless as they could go, but no.

His wing had been watching the other Decepticons fight on a vidscreen in the base. The Combaticons had been taking on the Earth Autobots in that elaborately staged way Megatron's overarching deception required, and Dirge had said something. Ramjet didn't even remember what it had been. It was only significant because Ramjet had met Thrust's optics immediately afterward for a shared moment of _Primus, he's creepy_.

_…really, he's creepy._

**_Really_**_ creepy._

Some thought had flickered through both their minds, a sense of how wrong that was. Not just wrong, but sickly, horribly familiar. They'd looked to Dirge. And their wingmate had been staring back at them in horrorstruck revelation.

Poor maintenance. Earth's filth corroding their cerebral circuitry. Confinement warping their minds.

_Starscream, no. **No.**_

They'd all been crazy before. Earth-mad, the Decepticons called it once returning to Cybertron had restored their sanity. But they hadn't _gone_ crazy; they'd come online already insane after their 4 million years of statis-lock buried on Earth. They hadn't felt the difference and actually recognized their insanity until they had been repaired. It was like waking up in the repairbay after a crash: terrible in retrospect, but already over. Compared to that, this was feeling the crash coming: the pain of a crippling shot and the spark-wrenching fall, watching as the ground rushed up, dreading the crash getting closer and closer and unable to stop…

Starscream redefined 'devious.' He also stripped away any vestige of pity from 'merciless.' He chained them by duty and power into a personalized, private torture chamber to slowly go mad. To _feel_ themselves slowly go mad, questioning every thought and winding themselves into hyperventilating, trembling knots. The helpless sensation of losing control overwhelmed their pride and flayed them open to whatever he wanted. Shockwave's candidate's head on a platter? They'd get it. Obedience on and off the battlefield? They'd do it. Oaths of personal fealty? They'd swear it. They'd fall over themselves for that kind of opportunity, because in reality they knew it wouldn't be that simple.

Kennelmaster and puppeteer, Air Commander and jailer; Starscream had them at his nonexistent mercy. They knew they deserved no forgiveness, and he would never forget. He held the keys to their freedom, strung up their minds and dangled them dancing from his hands, and they'd sit up and beg on command because they had no idea, not a fragging _clue_ what it was he'd take from them next. He'd defeated them without a shot fired. Prisoners had no leverage to make demands. They could only try to appease their jailor.

Starscream sat behind his desk, leaning back with a lazy smirk, and completely disarmed Ramjet by wits alone. He couldn't fight these tactics. He couldn't crash through any weaknesses. Confrontation only smacked him between the optics with his own vulnerabilities, and, small and shamed, he retreated and surrendered and was utterly crushed under Starscream's _mind_.

Ramjet had made an enemy of an ally. He'd believed he knew everything to know about him.

He'd forgotten that Starscream knew him, too.


	7. Just Act Natural: Wicked Witch is Dead

**Title: **Backstage: Just Act Natural

**Warnings: **Drunken Stunticons, implied violence, mental torture; looking "behind the scenes" of G1's funny Decepticon villains.

**Rating: ** G

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Thrust, Dirge, Ramjet, Stunticons, Thundercracker, Skywarp, Starscream

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **_____Envy_ ____

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><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

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><p>They stared at the Stunticons.<p>

The Stunticons had been created with the kind of madness the Decepticons feared. The fact that the ground-pounder gestalt didn't even notice it was a privatized horror to the rest of the Decepticons. They all watched the Stunticons like visitors at a zoo watching the caged monsters. Or, perhaps more accurately, they were freed prisoners on the outside looking back in at the inmates. It was kind of funny, a little sad, and it brought an itchy, wild feeling to their sparks. The Stunticons were a car crash, and they were observers.

_That's what we were,_ the Decepticons thought, even if they didn't think it. _We didn't know any better, either_.

That was the crux of the matter. The Stunticons embodied the Earth-mad sickness they'd endured, but at the time, none of the Decepticons had been aware of their own madness. Only afterward, looking back, had they seen what total crazy idiots they'd become.

Sometimes, idling in the common room between duty shifts and missions, they speculated on what the Stunticons would be like after Earth. Popular opinion among the flyers was that Motormaster would make an excellent soldier. Starscream and Soundwave had unofficially-officially agreed to transfer him over to Shockwave's ranks to be trained up as a real Decepticon fighter. It'd take some doing, but eventually the other Stunticons might make it in the normal ranks as well.

Because, seriously, the Stunticons weren't really Decepticon Elite material. At least, not off Earth where the other Elite Decepticons didn't have to pretend to be incompetently insane. Unless the Decepticons' youngest combiner team mysteriously gained a few million years' fighting experience when their minds were sorted out, they'd be booted off the Elite as soon as the Earth mission was finished. Which meant that the Elite flyers probably wouldn't get a chance to confirm their speculations, but what the frag. It gave them something to argue about good-naturedly between shifts.

It also led to these long, awkward pauses whenever the other Decepticons were confronted by the Stunticons' complete lack of understanding. Reality - on or off Cybertron, Megatron's deception notwithstanding - passed the Stunticons by on a daily basis. It made speculation on their base personalities an endless activity, as nobody actually knew what they were like underneath the scrambled circuitry. At the same time, it also made it impossible to explain certain fundamental basics of the universe to the poor ground-pounders.

So it wasn't like the Coneheads could explain to the Stunticons why they stared. It was the distance between grounder-pounders and flyers multiplied by a vast amount of missing information. They stared because they saw a pathetic ignorance staring back at them with nervous unhappiness and apathy and fireworks and drunken incomprehension. Until their Earth-mad broken minds were repaired, the Stunticons had to be kept in the dark on Megatron's master plan.

Starscream was not dead, and they could not tell the Stunticons that fact. If they did, the insane combiner team still wouldn't understand what that really _meant._ They couldn't explain the politics playing quietly behind the scenes, because the Stunticons lived and fought onstage with no inkling that the other Decepticons were only acting. Offstage didn't exist for these four mechs, yet.

Offstage, the important things happened. The Stunticons just didn't know that. So the Coneheads stared because they couldn't speak.

But that question…

The three Seekers had heard what Drag Strip asked, and in his words they saw their own Hell looking back at them. And that, with all its heavy implications, could not be tolerated. They knew all too well what Starscream's absence could mean, and 'envy' did not enter into their minds.

Using only two fingers, Thrust _gently_ picked Drag Strip's hand up off his arm, swung it _slowly_ into open air, and let it go as cautiously as an armed explosive. He looked at the yellow stunt car for a moment more, optics dimly pondering unknown thoughts. He turned his head and nodded slightly to Ramjet, who shrugged back. Dirge flicked an intentionally disinterested glance over the other three Stunticons, who gaped back. Even Dead End's notorious apathy had hitched, his expression changing enough to hint at the question openly painted across his gestaltmate's faces: _What just happened?_

The three Coneheads chose not to answer the unvoiced question. They turned on their turbines and left they way they'd come. They weren't hurrying, and they were not retreating. They just…left.

The Stunticons looked at each other. "Do you ever get the feeling we're not being told something?" Breakdown asked, a little hesitant to break the silence.

Dead End blinked. Drag Strip nodded, staring at his discarded hand as he used to the other to bring the energon cube back to his lips. He felt the need for more high grade, suddenly.

"Ding dong?" Wildride suggested uncertainly.

_The wicked witch, the wicked witch, is dead, is dead, is dead._

_…isn't he?_


	8. Stage Directions

**Title: **Backstage: Stage Directions

**Warnings: **Verbal abuse and sad Skywarp.

**Rating: ** G

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Starscream, Skywarp, & Thundercracker

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **_"You can't handle the truth!"_

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><p>It reminded Starscream of a building demolition. Experts cleared the area, the charges were ignited, there was the initial blast, and then - stillness. The breathless stillness of irreparably damaged supports coming apart all at once. There was that timeless moment when solid became powder, and, as predicted, everything collapsed in on itself.<p>

Skywarp cycled through all of that. The other Decepticons prudently vacated the immediate vicinity as Starscream approached to deliver the news, and an incoherent noise equivalent to _"..!"_ burst from the black-and-purple jet like dynamite going off. Then - stillness. Too many words rushed to come out, all of them canceling each other out until Skywarp could only stand frozen, expression contorted between utter disbelief and anger as the news-bomb quietly finished its dastardly work on his thoughts. The teleporter had a surplus of enthusiasm and a taste for destructive mischief, but he was as rational as the next mech. Skywarp's towering rage quivered, slumped, and gave like a deflated balloon.

As predicted, of course. Starscream was an expert at blowing up other people's thought processes.

"Awww, that's not **fair**…" Skywarp said plaintively.

"Only you could be disappointed by total conquest of an entire world." Starscream crossed his arms and eyed his wingmate critically. "Our supply crisis is suddenly a surplus, there's no risk of damage at all, and we're being hailed as the ultimate party guests by half the planet. And you're complaining that it's not fair. Not fair to whom, exactly?"

Thundercracker ventured into the blast zone, since demolition of Skywarp's hopes and dreams seemed complete. The eager smile had gone down like dust settling over the wreckage and left only Skywarp's petulant pout standing. "You know him. He doesn't get along well with the natives unless there's a cordial exchange of gunfire while he's stealing their stuff."

"True enough." Typical Skywarpian logic. Starscream's critical gaze shifted to analyzing Thundercracker next. "And you? I've yet to hear any mutterings from your corner about mistreatment of the natives."

The blue jet shrugged. "The slaves are fairly content here." Where an Autobot would already be sputtering indignantly over the disconnect between those two concepts, Decepticons had absolutely no difficulty telling the difference between an abused populace and a merely enslaved one. Thundercracker's usual issues with Megatron's policies on native subjugation lay quiet. "No wholesale slaughter for sport, and I haven't heard anything about genocide or rebellion. It seems like a straightforward conquest." He shook his head, a little incredulous at the idea. "How did refugee ships manage this?"

"They sacrificed their navigators to Primus?" Skywarp suggested, viciously glaring in the direction of the closest city. "Then Primus hand-delivered them onto a world of fuzzy kittens and anti-Autobot propaganda. He said unto the Decepticons, **'Go forth and ask nicely, and thou shalt rule the world.'**"

The other two Seekers just stood there, contemplating Skywarp like tourists in front of a not-particularly-exciting street performer as their wingmate descended into disgruntled noises and the occasional twitch. A fist sometimes rose to shake at the distant city, object of Skywarpian ire that it was. The Decepticon war party had sent a scout toward it, only to have him be met halfway there by an envoy wearing a Decepticon insignia himself. The envoy had insisted on giving the scout a _'Welcome to the Decepticon Empire!'_ gift basket to deliver to his commander. Starscream had nearly fallen over in shock when that first report (+ gift basket) had come back. Skywarp had _not_ been pleased. Especially since Starscream hadn't shared the gifts.

"Mm-hmm," Starscream said eventually, turning back to the conversation. "See, this is why I warned Megatron against too much concentration on the armed forces. Seems that Shockwave utterly failed to recognize the need to protect the historical archives and civilian science labs in the Empire's outlying citystates. When he withdrew to protecting only the major fortresses and associated civilians in our absence, the Autobot underground turned to attacking any Decepticons left exposed." He raised his palms in helpless exasperation over events long past. "Civilian archivists and scientists were an easy target, and they knew it. When their requests for protection were denied by Shockwave, they decided to flee instead of stand and fight."

Thundercracker nodded. "Make sense."

Autobots claimed to respect the delineation between warrior and civilian, but that line could be unpleasantly blurry with Decepticons. By necessity, most Decepticons could fight. If the Autobots were coming for a mech's facility, even if the mech himself wasn't directly targeted, the choice was flee or be reclassified as a warrior because he fought. Civilians usually just couldn't do the fighting thing very well, or they had personal, moral protests to physical violence. It happened. Some Decepticon civilians chose not fight for the Empire, even though they believed in it.

Unfortunately, in many cases, that meant the civilians _died_. Scientists and archivists? Yeah, Thundercracker would have run for it, too. Although pitching everything they owned - including the recreation room furniture and nearest neighbors - into a spaceship and taking off for parts unknown seemed a bit…extreme.

But, well. Civilians. Who knew what they thought?

"They came here and settled. I get that," he said, waving a hand - past Skywarp's display - at the world. "But **how** did a bunch of **civvies** take over?"

"They weren't intending to settle here. The reactor on the lead ship exploded, and it was either crash-land on the nearest solid chunk of anything or drift until they got sucked into a star." Starscream was also ignoring Skywarp. Their sulking wingmate was making a loud announcement canceling the raiding party over the comm. network, and his language was more colorful than a Crayola factory. "The natives were so primitive they decided Cybetronians were gods."

Thundercracker frowned. "Founding religions based on our appearance has never worked in the past. The natives always find us out and rebel."

Starscream left optic ticced. _Baaaaad_ memories, there. "Don't remind me. To their credit, they didn't even try that route. The historians onboard the ships wouldn't allow it. Instead, they set up a mutually beneficial treaty, trading technology for resources and help repairing the ship's reactor." Thundercracker opened his mouth but couldn't find words to say how strange he found that, so he closed it again. Starscream nodded at him. "Very much against Megatron's policies, I know, but while they were cooperating with the current generation of natives, the scientists were manufacturing an aerosol version of the gene therapy Bitmap used to subdue Cyphon 4. They somehow bound their version of it into the atmospheric elements so it permeated the planet. The next generation of natives was born just a little more subservient than the last. A little more, the next time. And so on." The Air Commander folded his arms, seeming oddly proud of the clever civilians. "By the time the ship was fully repaired, the fourth generation had accepted Decepticon rule." He smiled. "I'm going to find out which scientists were responsible for that bit of genius just so I can tell Mixmaster he can't have them."

"Taunting chemists never ends well, you know."

"The head of Research & Development pays better bribes. If the Constructicons wanted every brilliant mind I find for Engineering, they'd offer more." Starscream radiated smugness. "Anyway, they decided to stay and establish a colony in the name of the Empire instead of launching again. It's an unorthodox way to found a Decepticon colony and conquer a world, but they **are** noncombatants." Skywarp finished his announcement with a particularly vivid verbal illustration of spite and thwarted piracy. The other two Seekers watched him stomp off toward only-he-knew-where to do they-didn't-want-to-know-what. "Why did I promote him? It must have seemed like a good reason at the time."

"You're a completionist," the blue jet theorized. "Once you made Air Commander, the rest of your trine had to be officers, too, or you'd go quietly mad from obsessive-compulsive need."

"So why did I promote **you**?"

"Sheer good looks."

Starscream cycled his optics through an extended reboot, half truly checking for error and half just an incredulous blink. "…what." His wingmate gave him a placid smile, and he heaved air through filtration systems in a sigh. It was annoying human habit picked up from Earth, but at least it served a useful purpose here: not only did it express emotion, but it cleared his intake filters of accumulated heavy metals. "At least you didn't try to say it was skill. You may have vision problems, but a few knocks on the helm should fix that."

"You live in denial," Thundercracker informed him complacently.

"And you're delusional. Why did Megatron promote me, do you think?" This he had to hear.

They somewhat absently wandered after Skywarp, mostly because he seemed to be stomping toward the supply and operations encampment. Decepticon strike forces didn't really need base camps when their supplies were usually transported within members of the attack group, but the spacebridge receiver had to have some form of defensive structure in place around it. Until the actual battles started, that meant most things were stored and done there. In this planet's case, it seemed that they'd be relocating to more comfortable quarters instead of packing up their temporary base for war.

"Oh, that was skill," came the offhand answer. "He figured that between your ability and my looks, we almost make a complete warrior."

"That still doesn't explain Skywarp."

"I told you: that's your obsessive-compulsiveness at work."

"I am not obsessive-compulsive!"

Thundercracker cocked his head to smirk sidelong as his commander and - so this theory went - less attractive wingmate. "I was under orders not to inform you before the spacebridge closed that only two components of Reflector were reassigned to us from Earth."

Starscream's face became a twisted mask of sudden realization fighting irritation. Irritation won.

"Primus smelt you all," he snapped, and Thundercracker's laughter followed him as he abruptly adopted Skywarp's stomping ire. "Paceset! Foiltorn! Scramble your squadrons, find the leader of this **pathetic** excuse for a Decepticon colony and **bring him here **_**at once!**_"

"Yessir!" yelped back, and Decepticon flyers swiftly scattered in every direction like Starscream was spraying laserfire instead of orders. They didn't know what had brought on the Air Commander's black rage, but what the Autobots on Earth had forgotten was how the red jet's scratchy voice scorched the air ranks' tailfins. The poor squadrons currently panicking their way into formation didn't have the luxury of dealing with the Earth version of Starscream. The Decepticon Empire's Second in Command played the fool well, but nobody had the ball-bearings to say that it was more than an act. Not while staring reality down the null ray barrel.

"Put a **guard** on those energon cubes! Do you think we're dealing with **Autobots** here?" Just that voice _giving_ orders lit a furnace under them, but if he had to stop to explain those orders…yeah. Bad news. "These civvies are just as Decepticon as you are, you imbecilic waste of fuel, and if one of those cubes goes missing from inventory, I'll **tear your wings off** and **beat** it out of your worthless **corpse**." Or worse news - if he had to _repeat_ the orders? "I said, **guard that energon**, or I will shoot your empty head off and use your parts to build a better Decepticon!" The unfortunate mechs were better off drowning themselves in a bucket of bile and acid. It'd be a quicker and less humiliating way to go.

The warrior demonstrating this known fact for the others' morbid fascination was clutching his gun like a lifeline, standing shame-faced in front of the energon cubes while Starscream cursed out his circuitry, friends, and build model using three separate languages. Then he ranted for a while in a fourth, detailing down to the faulty screws the disgraced Decepticon's probable lineage.

Skywarp stopped his own animated discussion with Gravitytide to watch the Air Commander storm by dragging the poor, dumb guard's wincing unit-commander by one wing and driving a small herd of the strike force's ground subcommanders before him by ferocity alone. "What's gotten into him?" Gravitytide shook his head silently in reply, mystified.

"Jealousy," Thundercracker said from behind them. "I told him you were better at troop organization, and he just couldn't take it."

The black-and-purple Seeker barked a short laugh as Starscream screeched and the ground troops fell over themselves to get into ranks for inspection before the conquering civilians arrived and saw _" _- bunch of sniveling morons pretending to be Decepticons. You're the pride of the Empire, not the rejects and refuse from boot camp! Am I supposed to be **impressed** by that weapon? Carry it like you know how to use it, not like some weakling drone playing warrior! You in the back - I can hear you being stupid from here. Do I look like I'm talking to him? Yes, **you**. I've seen cleaner armor on dead Autobots!"

Even Gravitytide cracked a grin as Starscream's tirade scoured battle-proven veterans down to scared recruits being chased by their first gun-waving drill sergeant. The flyer squadrons who hadn't headed out under orders already were frantically running around in the background, thanking Primus (between swearing copiously at whoever had forgotten to bring extra armor polish) that the Air Commander had chosen to inspect the ground ranks first. The collected subcommanders standing at attention to one side cringed in unison as a particularly nasty comment in that shrill voice told the truth in the worst possible way.

Skywarp cranked his estimation of Starscream's foul mood up a notch and looked back to Thundercracker. It was hard to tear his optics from the spectacle. He had to hand it to Starscream: the mech knew how to absolutely shred a 'bot with verbal abuse alone. "No, seriously, what's up with him?"

Thundercracker solemnly shook his head. "The truth? You can't handle the truth."


	9. Sound Crew: Coercion

**Title: **Backstage: Sound Crew

**Warnings: **Silliness, and sensuality. A fetish, and reaction to it. Foul language.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Soundwave, Ratbat, Frenzy, Thundercracker, Skywarp

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **_Coercion_

* * *

><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

* * *

><p>The void of power left by sudden death had to be filled. On Earth, the Autobots - and Stunticons - waited in breathless anticipation. Who would be Air Commander?<p>

The Decepticons - except the Stunticons, of course - waited in amused patience. They knew who the Air Commander was; Starscream was just temporarily indisposed. But, appearances had to be maintained. Megatron would use Starscream's latest 'death' to his advantage, and it was his reaction that the rest of the Decepticons would base their own acts off of. Megatron led the Empire by example, after all.

Mostly, the Supreme Commander's example seemed to consist of laughing a lot. They were okay with that. Starscream's after-action report had really been a no-action report. The Decepticons had received the news of an already-conquered planet with confusion, some amazement, and finally a kind of muted celebration. Victory for the Decepticon Empire! A totally unexpected victory, but victory nonetheless!

_Civilian_ victory at that. That particular detail had left Megatron helpless with mirth, helm thrown back against the top of his command chair as he guffawed. Civilians didn't get a lot of face time in the middle of war. To hear that a bunch of refugees from Cybertron had subjugated a whole world was surprising. Having the resources and cheerful servitude of that entire world suddenly at his disposal upped surprise into the realm of gleeful disbelief. The disgruntled voice of Skywarp in the background as Starscream reported all of this had just been the high grade cube in the midgrade energon.

Megatron laughed for _hours_. Then he had Soundwave replay the report for the rest of the underwater base - minus the Stunticons - so they could hear Skywarp's outrage and Starscream's good news themselves. The Stunticons were confused but chalked up the spontaneous party in the halls to belated celebration of the Air Commander's demise.

Soundwave made sure that was all they thought. He spied on them with the same care he monitored the Earth Autobots. One suspicious action, even an out-of-character _word_ by the Decepticons could ruin Megatron's master plan. If the Stunticons found out, they'd betray Megatron's massive ploy. If Optimus Prime found out that the Decepticons were out conquering other worlds while Megatron played the megalomaniac tyrant here on Earth, the Earth Autobots would return to Cybertron. They'd fix their Earth-muddled cerebral circuits. They'd become unbearably lucky _and_ competent again. The Decepticon Empire would suffer a monumental headache again.

Keeping the Stunticons and Autobots ignorant of the masquerade here on this dirtball planet required careful information control. That was Soundwave's job. The communications specialist kept the Stunticons ignorant of the true Decepticon Empire, but it wasn't always easy. The other Decepticons found the Stunticons' craziness an annoyance and a bit alarming, but Soundwave had decided it to be an ongoing irritation. Crazy mechs were _unpredictable_ mechs. True, it made them a bit easier to control, but not enough to be reliable. The number of times he sent Breakdown scurrying back to his gestalt in a paranoid fit only just balanced against Rumble and Frenzy trying to keep tabs on Wildrider at all times.

Also, the Constructicons filed complaint logs every time they had to deal with the car combiner team. Soundwave hated the Constructicons' complaint logs. They'd somehow discovered his dislike of Earth languages and took turns submitting their logs in Japanese haiku. Verbally, if they'd been particularly frustrated by something the Stunticons pulled that day. It would make a lesser mech punch a fist through a console, but Soundwave was made of sterner stuff.

…okay, so the one and only time Soundwave had confronted the Constructicons over their irritating vice, they'd chosen to respond in a chorus of Swahili. That would have been bad enough, but Mixmaster had adopted a stutter-glitch that made listening to him an endurance test. Also, Bonecrusher had dropped his vocals intentionally out of tune. Soundwave had fled the repair bay.

Now he just kept his head down and silently loathed the Stunticons. He'd hate the Constructicons, too, but lesson learned: trying to get the upper hand on mechs who knew your build inside and out was an exercise in torture.

All of this had, somehow, led to a private meeting of the Decepticon officers on the underwater base's command deck. They assembled slowly as Soundwave sat out of the way at a console, hooked into the base comm. net. It was his assigned duty to coordinate a complicated distraction of the Stunticons. His part in the distraction consisted of patiently listening to Rumble and Astrotrain complain.

Today, Rumble played a total prank-happy idiot sweet-talking Motormaster into helping with a nasty little trip-up of a trap in the corridor outside of Astrotrain's quarters. Astrotrain had - on orders - picked a fight with the temperamental Stunticon leader yesterday. Today, Astrotrain sat in his quarters waiting for his cue, pre-bitching at Soundwave over his part in the distraction. It consisted of a role that could be summed up by _Me Angry Victim Grrr-RAR Chase Stunticons Through Base Halls!_

Everything seemed to be in place. Soundwave turned part of his attention to the actual meeting. Megatron presided over what officers could make it on short notice, since there were always those who pulled duty running Autobot interference. Scrapper had come on behalf of the Constructions, of course, and was quietly speaking with the warlord. Onslaught stood at attention, respectfully standing aside until called for; he represented the Combaticons. Shrapnel stood watchfully by him, just close enough to be clear he was there as one of the Combaticons' probationary officers. He also was the Insecticons's reprentative. Astrotrain had originally been scheduled to come as well, but he'd ended up taking Blitzwing's place in the Stunticon-bait game.

The abrupt change came about because the other triple changer had run into Cosmos on re-entry. Let it never be said that Megatron couldn't change plans on a moment's notice. Blitzwing and Blast-Off were now up in orbit, loudly exchanging opinions on the latest Weapon Of Doom and Mass Destruction and Kicking Earth Puppies. It hadn't actually been built yet, but Scrapper promised his team could whip up something sufficiently diabolical on short notice. The Autobots, according to what Laserbeak reported, were hanging off of every word from the two Decepticon shuttles.

The fact that they thought _Cosmos_, of all Autobots, was stealthy enough to _spy_…urgh. That was just a sad indicator of the Autobots' lack of mental health. Well, it took care of the weekend, in any case. Soundwave would update Shockwave after the meeting finished. Sometimes he thought the Decepticons needed a day planner for this slag.

**Thursday:** promote temporary Air Commander. "_Yeah, Starscream's dead. Uh-huh. No, really?"_

**Friday:** build Weapon of the Week. _"You'll never defeat us, Prime!"_

**Saturday:** let Prime and his crazy Autobot team 'defeat' the evil Decepticons. Collect on Swindle's newest round of Cliché One-Liner Bingo. _"Wow, what a surprise. Didn't see that coming. Who else heard someone say, 'That's impossible'?"_

**Sunday:** stick the Stunticons on clean-up duty while Ratbat and Swindle negotiate the latest oil purchase from Saudi Arabia. _"Evil Decepticons, oh no, eek, call Autobots for help, yadda yadda…you take cash only? Sure. What nation's currency ya want that in?"_

**Monday:** manufacture high grade from oil, just to keep everyone occupied. Bored Decepticon troops create their own fun. _"One cube for Cybertron, two cubes for meeee…"_

**Tuesday:** stick the Stunticons on clean-up duty after the inevitable party. Nurse hangovers and gather blackmail material. _"No wonder the table collapsed. The hula skirt obviously tipped the weight balance."_

**Wednesday:** actually accomplish something. Send clandestine teams through the spacebridge while playing a rousing game of 'Who's A Traitor Today?' back at the base to confuse any watching Autobots. _"Who went where? Spacebridge what? No, no, he didn't go to Cybertron, he went to the repair bay!"_

**Thursday:** plan the weekend. Wash, rinse, repeat. _"Right. Who feels like kidnapping someone today?"_

"Do I **have** to?" Astrotrain whined for the last time over internal commlink before opening the door to his quarters. "I don't care how much Humiliation Pay is, I still say it should be more than Hazard Pay. Pain doesn't last as long as Drag Strip laughing his aft off."

"Where are the other two parts of Reflector when you need him?" Rumble asked philosophically.

Soundwave tuned out the chaos of a Stunticon distraction going right and focused on the three remaining Decepticon Seekers on Earth. Dirge seemed twitchy. Ramjet had a fake smile plastered over his face like a good-luck charm. Thrust looked like Megatron had just brained him instead of promoted him.

"M-Me, sir?"

Megatron frowned thunderously. "Yes, you. I expect you to assume the duties of your new rank by the next duty shift. In everything but actual fact, you are to **be** the new Air Commander. Ransack Starscream's quarters, change everything in his office, gloat over those two," he gestured at the other two jets, who appeared to be paralyzed, "and pick two - no," Megatron paused to tap a thoughtful finger on his chin, "three new wings to transfer from Cybertron. Shockwave informs me that the Autobot resistance groups have been increasing their espionage attempts on the outposts on Cybertron. Yes…three wings of flyers, but start some kind of contest to determine which wings. Choose the wings beforehand, but I want a huge show of force and competition." A scheming smile overcame his frown, and all the Decepticons present were suddenly reminded that this was their warlord. He was the Supreme Commander, who masterminded the invasion of worlds. Deceiving Autobots was second nature to him by now. "Blow something large up. In fact, start a minor war between the flight ranks and Shockwave's ground troops. Why waste a perfectly good opportunity to distract Prime?"

Soundwave could think of several reasons, but most of them hinged on the fact that his workload had just tripled. It was bad enough that the Stunticons had to be kept ignorant while on Earth, but it was an information-editing nightmare when plans included Cybertron. The Autobots were a pain in the aft to keep track of, too, but at least he could delegate most of that to Shockwave's Tower Control.

"It's been a while since we've done a Cybertron-based plan," Scrapper put in. "We'll have to drill the troops on basic training for 'Raving Maniacs 101'."

"They enjoy it," Megatron said dismissively.

It was true. The Decepticons on Cybertron enjoyed getting orders to rant and misbehave.

There was one whole base that Starscream had 'taken over' during one epic fail of a plan (Take Over the Decepticons #210) that continually sent in requests to be used again. They'd apparently come up with a guaranteed way to look utterly insane for Autobot spies: they gathered in the common rooms and stared fixedly at a point in the wall. They didn't speak, and they didn't move. They just _stared_. It seemed harmless, but if extended in a straight line, all the points from all the common rooms intersected in the most heavily guarded room in the base.

It hadn't been heavily guarded until Autobot infiltrators started trying to break into said room, convinced the Decepticons were staring for a reason. Now the base averaged about one caught Autobot per month. They promised they could double that number with a new mindscrew of an act if their request went through. Maybe Air Commander Thrust should have a base of operations on Cybertron? Soundwave made a mental note of the idea as the meeting broke up into discussion of individual roles.

Speaking of the newly promoted Air Commander: Thrust was heading toward Soundwave with the same kind of expression the Constructicons wore when they had a Stunticon complaint.

Soundwave swung himself around in his chair to face the oncoming jet, bracing for whatever was coming. Technically, this Seeker now outranked him. He could give Soundwave orders entirely in _mime_ if he so wished. It'd be an improvement over the haikus, honestly.

Hands slammed down on either side of the chair back, hemming the Cassetticons master in, and Thrust leaned in. "Contact Starscream," he growled in Soundwave's face, and his optics were noticeably manic. The communications officer carefully didn't react, but for some reason, Dirge and Ramjet seemed extremely relieved by their wingmate's words. How odd. "I don't care how. I don't care if you have to encrypt it and send it to him using the U.S. Postal Service. **Contact him.** I need orders." A slightly pained look crossed Thrust's face; an ambitious, self-reliant Decepticon asking for orders. Ouch. "And for Primus' sake, tell him that this wasn't my idea."

Ahhh. It seemed that the notorious promotion of Skywarp during the Bruticus debacle was coming back to haunt the Coneheads. Soundwave could use this. If Thrust didn't want Starscream returning with every intention of utterly destroying his temporary replacement, then the Coneheads were going to owe him major favors. Time to set some terms -

Thrust was suddenly in his face, hissing directly into an audio receiver. "Soundwave? Just so you know: I can speak **Parisian French**."

- ooooor not.

**[* * * * * ]**


	10. Sound Crew: Bewilderment

**Title: **Backstage: Sound Crew

**Warnings: **Silliness, and sensuality. A fetish, and reaction to it. Foul language.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Soundwave, Ratbat, Frenzy, Thundercracker, Skywarp

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **__Bewilderment__

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><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

* * *

><p>It started so stupidly, too.<p>

Starscream died. Wasn't that a laugh? But the Autobots were idiots enough to believe it, and Megatron grabbed that and ran with it.

Someone had bribed Soundwave to mess with the recorded '_Demise of Air Commander Starscream'_ file Shockwave sent from Cybertron; after some tinkering to reduce the background explosions, he'd played it back at three times the normal speed while Swindle passed out Buzzword Bingo cards to anyone who could stand upright long enough to play. The Decepticon Elite on Earth collapsed against walls and grabbed whoever was nearest, begging them for a punch to the face to sober up before the Stunticons started wondering why everyone was giggling over Megatron's newest anti-Prime ploy. It took even more effort to cover how they collectively broke up laughing over the hiss-spit power-play fight brewing between Shockwave and newly-promoted Air Commander Thrust. It was a _laugh riot_.

Starscream probably laughed hardest of all, red optics flinty with satisfaction as he gave orders to Thrust from worlds away. The air ranks had learned that lesson well, it seemed. Thrust had his own ideas, but none of the Coneheads were dumb enough to cross the true Decepticon Air Commander again. Thrust requested orders for _everything_ and used his own initiative sparingly at best. He had a better chance of surviving Starscream's inevitable return that way.

On Soundwave's suggestion, Thrust had relocated to a heavily-fortified outpost on Cybertron. Officially, he cited a need to test the Decepticon wings for new additions to the Elite ranks. However, to all appearances the new Air Commander was establishing a power base and vying for control of entire sectors with Shockwave. Every few hours he called up Shockwave's Tower to have a screaming fight over mundane things with the one-opticked loyalist. The infighting was a hugely distracting move that had the Earth-bound Autobots' unwavering attention.

Frenzy had witnessed one such distraction - um, 'fight.' Thrust had borrowed one of Soundwave's audio props from Earth - something called a 'megaphone' - and sat at the comm. console yelling at Shockwave through it. The acoustic warping had been amazingly horrible to hear, distorting even a normal discussion two officers into what sounded like a froth-at-the-mouth argument. It had even taken Frenzy - who was standing right there watching, for Primus' sake! - a good long while to figure out that Shockwave and Thrust were talking about patrol schedules. It guaranteed that whatever garbled form of the transmissions the Autobots managed to intercept would establish Thrust as an absolute, irrational, mech-gone-mad-with-power maniac.

The Decepticon soldiers at Thrust's 'base' outpost were helping that impression along with gleeful ingenuity. Frenzy hadn't been there long enough to actually see them in action, but they'd evacuated the base twice to run laps around the outpost. They spent their free time staring at specific points on the walls in the common rooms and had taken to doing elaborate aerial maneuvers in the deepest underground storage bays. Even to those who knew what was going on, they seemed insane.

Frenzy had been sent to that outpost to advise the local experts on new traps for catching infiltrators. By the time they'd finished testing the upgraded outpost defenses, he'd been convinced the Decepticons there were the craziest bunch of lunatics he'd ever worked with. Crazy like turbo-foxes. He passed on a recommendation to Shockwave for secondary rank promotion for one particular lunatic who took a true artist's care in planning the Autobot traps. That was the kind of attention to detail Shockwave could use around his Tower. Protecting the spacebridge and the invasion plans from discovery was a major priority.

But it'd all been funny. So stupid it was funny, really, which most of the plans that involved Earth seemed to be.

Then Soundwave had sent his Cassetticons to Pentayear to organize the annexation of the planet into the Decepticon Empire, and things stopped being so funny. A civilian conquest had been kind of awesome. Even if civilians themselves seemed wimpy to Frenzy, he had to admire a conquest done with an overall gain in profit and resources. The world market was peaceful, thriving, and wide open to outside trade. The planet was proof positive to all the universe that Decepticon rule would improve overall standards of living. Megatron was in the midst of conquering the universe - and improving it. _Peace through tyranny_.

Autobot propaganda couldn't stand up in the face of meticulous records kept by the historians, archivists, engineers, and scientists. They'd detailed every step of the way as they brought the planet's primitive civilization up to the rather impressive level it was at now. Sure, the natives lived in slavery, but the vast difference between treatment of a resisting population and cooperative one had even Thundercracker, notoriously reluctant to cooperate with Megatron's policies, nodding in agreement.

Final opinion from the ranks seemed to be that civilians needed to be included on all the invasion missions from now on. Brigade commanders had been sending in requests for 'civilian backup' ever since Starscream's first report was broadcast. Something about the situation fired up the Decepticons as a whole; it'd renewed faith in Megatron's rule and restored vigor to warriors who had been merely standing guard on Cybertron for 4 million years. The eager faces uplifted to Starscream's presence as he'd led troops into the city in parade formation had surpassed satisfaction and lit inspiration. It reignited a fever pitch of belief in all Decepticons. The natives weren't Cybertronians, but Decepticon servants cheering on their personal warrior heroes were worth acquiring and protecting. Frag, it was practically a dream come true.

The Autobots thought the Decepticons to be murderers and thieves, delighting in slaughter and destruction. That was true to a point. But even though Frenzy wouldn't hesitate to kill one of the little technorganic natives on Pentayear, they'd never give him a reason to. In return, it never entered his mind to mindlessly massacre part of the Decepticon Empire's support structure.

Those native were slaves, but that made them _structure_. Any grunt knew the importance of structure. It was important as energon supplies and the repair bay to soldiers who relied on that faceless, necessary support behind their ranks to keep them supplied, comfortable, and in fighting shape. Besides, they were something to conquer _for_. Only drones fought on orders. Decepticons, real Cybertronians all, needed something to believe in. Personal enjoyment of battle wore thin quickly, but Megatron had started a war because they _followed_ him. To have a whole world as proof positive that his words rang true, a realized vision painted in a vivid, conquered reality…

The Insecticons had shut the Combaticons in a room with all the footage and records sent back by Starscream. Onslaught had come out of that room looking like someone had sliced his thoughts open at the source. Kickback had stood outside the room waiting, the very image of a Decepticon probationary office grinding the edge razor-keen on a very valid point: _This is what you rebelled against._ He'd cocked his head up at the Combaticon leader, making no mention of rehabilitation or reprogramming or any of the threats looming over the combiner team because the facts alone were scrambling Onslaught's mind enough.

Onslaught had stared back, speechless in the face of overwhelming proof of a system that worked. _Megatron's_ system. And, because of his own actions, Onslaught's place in this successful Empire was that of a prisoner out on probation. That kind of humiliation burned lessons in better than any lecture or beating.

The other Combaticons had come out of that room subdued as well, point made, but Swindle had been bended knee joints away from begging to be included on the annexation mission. The pure light of greed shone in his optics like a believer facing his god. That had been hilarious. Frenzy had happily set terms and conditions and requirements until he'd wound Swindle up into a twitching, squirming trader kept from a wide-open, brand spanking new market with not a single military acquisition officer in place. Then Soundwave had revealed some new information that just happened to show some teasers of what kind of technology shiploads of Cybertronian civilians could invent while stranded off-planet for 4 million years. Squirming had degenerated into pathetic little whimpers when Swindle saw that.

Between comm. officer and Cassetticon, they'd toyed with the Combaticon until he broke into gibbering promises of whatever they wanted, _just please please pleeeeeeease get me in contact with whoever gets put in charge of acquisitions pretty pretty please with credits on top?_

Stupidly funny, that. Frenzy had left Earth content, assured that he'd have anything he wanted handed to him by an ecstatic Swindle when he returned with that contact information.

Then came the first glimpse of Pentayear, and Frenzy had snapped into a much more serious frame of mind.

Yeah, he'd joked and strained not to show it, but, oh, he'd been shivering under the cover of mocking Ratbat. The atmosphere on Pentayear required air filter modifications on the teams sent through the spacebridge from Cybertron, but the civilians had come up with a solution to that long ago. It was part of the advanced tech Soundwave had taunted Swindle with. The civvies had modified their alternate modes until external filter systems dealt the heavy metals. The filters were so efficient, in fact, that their bodies actually absorbed and used the excess elements.

Starscream had quickly adopted that solution, mandating new alternate modes for his air ranks. Frenzy had seen the specs for those alternate modes already, but what he hadn't seen was what the flyers looked like in their root modes now. The wings looked fairly similar as before, and on the outside, the air intakes on the flyers' torsos and shoulders appeared mostly the same. All that new tech and those new alt-modifications slotted ever-so-sleekly into place, and Frenzy hadn't been prepared. For all that they looked the same, they were _different_.

The difference slicked down their legs. It lined their thighs and tucking neatly into knee joints, then flaring bell-shaped and _heavy_ under their knees. Their thrusters were wrapped in layers of complicated mechanisms that clicked open and shut depending on atmosphere composition, creating a solid shell of armor that constricted and expanded. It was constantly-moving but never vulnerable. Even when the flyers stood still, their feet writhed with flashes of moving gears and panels. It was an intricate system that would never survive combat, making it unique to this world alone.

It was fragging _gorgeous_.

Frenzy dragged his jaw off the ground with difficulty. He didn't understand the new design, could only speculate on what the glimpses of spiraling thrusters and hidden gauges could do, and his bewilderment totally floored him. He'd never been so turned on in his life, and he did not. Know. _Why_.

**[* * * * * ]**


	11. Sound Crew: Technology

**Title: **Backstage: Sound Crew

**Warnings: **Silliness, and sensuality. A fetish, and reaction to it. Foul language.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Soundwave, Ratbat, Frenzy, Thundercracker, Skywarp

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **___"Milow Ayo – Technology" ___

* * *

><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

* * *

><p>The "Welcome to Pentayear, Slaggers!" party the civilians threw had been an open-armed welcome to Megatron's forces, starting the political machinations with good-natured intentions of power-grabbing. These were, as no one ever forgot, <em>Decepticon<em> civilians.

Starscream's troops had gone into it with open optics, knowing exactly what they were getting into even as they got overcharged and found themselves being talked to by persuasively manipulative civilians. Officers and soldiers alike were pounced. The party had never really ended. It extended through the long planetary days as the refugee conquerors came from all corners of the world to celebrate and get their hands back into Cybertron by putting them all over the troops. Amused and disposed to be generous with attention and information, the guests of honor hadn't needed Starscream's orders to mingle peacefully with the civvies.

The arrival of the annexation mission group from Cybertron had been greeted by raised hands and shouted invitations to join the party.

Ratbat had come along to begin integration of the planet's resources into the war effort. Frenzy had come to deliver orders from Megatron and receive orders from Starscream for delivery to Thrust. Ravage disappeared from the mission the moment the spacebridge opened, vanishing like the spy he was to gather information behind the scenes. The other Decepticons were all from Shockwave's control team, all sent with specific purposes and agenda.

That was temporarily derailed in the name of 'cooperation with local authorities.' That it just so happened that those authorities insisted on partying before business was just an odd coincidence.

So the locals and the soldiers milled about the city, catching up on Cybertron, the war, and the universe in general. They benevolently ignored the natives, who flocked to serve the newly-arrived rulers. More Decepticons to serve! New and rewarding duties to be assigned! _What joy!_

Frenzy acquired a covey of adoring natives just by existing; they'd never such a short master, and finding ways to adapt their world to his needs was the most exciting thing they could imagine. He'd had to adjust to not having to fetch more energon - or a chair, or an armrest, or ask for directions, or look for a person - on his own. It was the kind of adjustment he could get used to making. It was a little unnerving at first, after so long on Earth, but hey, Frenzy was a tough mech. He'd adapt to being waited on hand and foot.

It did leave him with too much time to ogle, however. Frenzy had always…admired…a well-turned foot. Rumble tended to like the back of the knee where the thigh tapered to the joint, and frag yes, the temptation to grope that area was always present, but Frenzy had a thing for feet. A grounder's wheels could rouse his interest if they were positioned right, and the frictionless gliders hovercraft altmodes favored tricked his systems _out_. Ages of standing at Soundwave's side had spread an endless vista of feet passing before him, and for preference, Frenzy definitely liked the flyers best.

The rare times Soundwave accompanied Starscream on an inspection of the rank and file sent Frenzy into a tizzy. All those thrusters lined up in perfect lines, and everyone else's attention was up on wings and faces while Frenzy browsed like a gourmet sitting down to a chef's best fare. The variety of propulsion methods clapped onto feet fascinated him, but he drooled the most over the high-heeled style. Rumble agreed, head bent toward him as they dissected a tasty Seeker from the waist down with their optics. They'd decided that putting the weight forward on the front of the foot changed the angle of the knees and thighs.

Personally, Frenzy liked the view from below more. He enjoyed looking up at the empty black circles like a cannon barrels as the flyers cut their engines to land on feet that smoked with burnt fuel and potential. He'd spent so long fantasizing over those feet that he'd worn the purring lust off his dreams.

Or so he'd thought.

Now he was on a planet with new varieties on old themes, and the glutted gourmand faced a dessert of exquisite proportions. Not so jaded now, Frenzy lurched through the party. He ached from the sheer, close, almost-able-to-touch presence of so many pretty, pretty feet. It was almost funny, trying so hard his internal tape crackled alarmingly to not outright stare at all the beautiful feet. They were right on eye level with him. He wanted to reach out and grab hold, but no. No, no, and no. He had a mission. He had dignity.

He found Starscream and delivered both orders and requests. He reeled away from that encounter feeling punch-drunk and trying desperately not to show it. Starscream presided over a minor cult to his handsomeness already, and Frenzy and Rumble had been clandestine members of that Cybertronian sect already. With the new alternate mode, Frenzy had to fight off the urge to build a devotee shrine at the Air Commander's feet. There was handsome, there was lovely, and then there was just _yum_. Starscream? _Rowr._

Mission completed, Frenzy went in search of dignity. He needed either Ravage or Ratbat, because quite obviously he needed adult supervision.

The fact that Ratbat had perched on Thundercracker's arm nearly undid Frenzy completely. The blue Seeker sat relaxed in a chair discussing some finer point of supplies with the technimal Cassetticon. The party whirled on around them, and beside them, Skywarp sprawled with both feet up on a third chair.

_Guh._

The universe had it out for Frenzy. That was only explanation for this torture.

Things only got more ludicrous from that point, as Skywarp apparently had his feet up because he'd suffered a minor thruster malfunction. He kept cycling the vents open and closed, and Frenzy couldn't even pretend he wasn't watching. That was just…oh, c'mon. Somewhere out there, Primus was laughing at him.

"What?" the purple-and-black Seeker demanded lazily. The party was too nice to get worked up over anything, even a Cassetticon staring at his feet as if he'd seen a miracle.

Frenzy tore his optics upward, but they immediately slipped down again with an almost audible click. "Just…never seen the design before. What do the, um, fiddly bits do?" One hand extended dangerously close to the moving parts fanning gently apart as the thrusters spiraled in and out. Skywarp snapped everything in tight and close just to see him jump and grab that venturing hand in again. "Looks fragile," Frenzy got out, optics still locked.

Skywarp looked at his own feet, considering them. "Yeah, I guess." They were very shiny, that was for sure, and lots of working parts whirring every which way. He could see why the Cassetticon was staring at them. The little sneak was probably thinking about what kind of damage he could do to all the entwined parts. "I dunno what those part do," the jet confessed easily. "I'm no repair mech. All I know is that," he stabbed a finger at his feet accusingly, feeling betrayed by his lack of flight capability, "don't work." Thundercracker snorted, and Skywarp turned pathetic optics on him. "I'm on the **wounded list**," he wailed, intentionally playing it up. "The civvies hurt me!"

"Starscream's an evil glitch," Thundercracker explained when both Cassetticons looked to him incredulously. "Skywarp's going down as the only Decepticon casualty for the whole mission. Non-fatal, clearly."

"So not fair," Skywarp muttered. Frenzy's optics had drifted back to his feet, and the hand ventured out again. Skywarp kept half an optic on it, wondering if the Cassetticon would really sabotage him right here, right now.

"Excuse me," a pleasantly light voice interrupted the miniature drama. "I believe you've been waiting for me?"

Skywarp looked up at the civilian and scowled. "**Finally.** Fix me!" Thundercracker's unoccupied arm clunked him upside the helm, and Skywarp sat up in a hurry. "Hey!"

"Behave," the blue Seeker said sternly, and Skywarp opened his mouth to retort - and shut it again. The really annoying thing about civilians was that the command structure got all kinds of screwed up around them. Technically, in a military society like the Decepticons, an Elite officer outranked most civilians. But, again technically, Pentayear was not yet officially absorbed into the Decepticon Empire. That meant that Skywarp was a _guest_. He might not be the greatest mind in the Decepticons, but even Skywarp knew that guests behaved and didn't threaten their hosts. It was rude.

Even if he wasn't a guest, Decepticon soldiers didn't threaten Decepticon civilians. That was just asking for trouble. Might didn't make right against unarmed civvies.

Er…especially not unarmed civvies who were intelligent enough to design the very nice, if currently malfunctioning, altmode that he, Skywarp, currently sported.

The civilian - Head Engineer McI'm_Way_SmarterThanYou or something along that line - grinned as Skywarp suddenly sat up straighter. "I take it you recognize me now." Something deeply menacing shone briefly in his mild red optics, and they were all abruptly reminded that the civilians on this world were Decepticons. Thundercracker stiffened in his seat, and Ratbat regarded the civilian with interest. "Now, behave or I won't fix you," Head Engineer GrrScaryAsFreakin'_Megatron_ requested quite politely, and Skywarp hoped he didn't hold grudges.

"Excuse me," the civvie said to Frenzy, stepping in front of the Cassetticon. He lifted the Skywarp's feet and settled into the chair, letting the thrusters sit in his lap as he pulled out an array of delicate tools and started in immediately.

Frenzy took one step back out of the way, then three forward. His optics were glued to the fantastically tantalizing sight spread in front of him as the jet's lower legs butterflied open under the civilian's sure touch. Outrageously complex systems loosened, gears untwisting until everything was visible: joints and ignition switches and cabling exposed to the whole wide world. The Cassetticon thought he'd been aroused before, but lust dragged fingers of heat down his internals until his systems fired false error messages. He trembled finely, holding onto the appearance of merely normal interest with joint-popping effort.

Skywarp sat there, stripped naked to the room at large, and didn't dare to move. The rest of the party didn't pause or care, and even Thundercracker had turned back to his discussion, but that didn't change the fact that this mech had his armor _wide open_ in _public_. The knowledge that this wasn't a repair bay, this was out in public where anyone could see, pulsed in Skywarp's chest like a living thing kneading claws of sickly pleasure in and out of his spark. The disturbing sensation of his thrusters responding to someone else's control crept up his legs, sensitizing every movement into a ricochet of sensation fluttering from foot to midsection. It coiled around his already excited spark and skipped through his fuel pump, and his air intakes hitched audibly.

The civvie - Head Engineer DearPrimusDon't_Stop_ - tilted a knowing smile at him. The smile slid back behind a professional mask, and the mech turned to ever-so-politely engage Frenzy in conversation. The Cassetticon was observing the repair job, and Skywarp thanked his lucky stars that it was boredom, not interest, on Frenzy's face. The dull look deepened into glazed optics when the civvie launched into a detailed explanation of how the thruster design worked. Skywarp didn't know what he'd have done if Frenzy was enjoying this.

Frenzy could see it all: the strain crossing the Seeker's face, and the entertained expression behind the civilian's calm mask as gentle fingers caressed wires with professional care. The situation was so stupid that it wasn't funny at all, and Frenzy had to get away. He had to, because he wanted inside Skywarp's jigsaw-puzzle legs like nothing else. His fingers twitched to grip the thrusters, scrape down the spiraling grooves to the bottom until he could breathe first-hand that smokeless cordite smell of burnt fuel and hold spent fire in his hands.

The problem being that he couldn't step back without his legs giving out.

Into that hysterically funny realization dropped a received message notice, blipping on in the corner of his vision, and nothing could make Frenzy feel any stupider than that kind of normal in his bizarre life right now.

**[* * * * *]**


	12. Sound Crew: Betrayal

**Title: **Backstage: Sound Crew

**Warnings: **Silliness, and sensuality. A fetish, and reaction to it. Foul language.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Soundwave, Ratbat, Frenzy, Thundercracker, Skywarp

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **____Scenario - the moment of betrayal____

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><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

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><p>The message blipped in the corner of his visor. Most of his attention still panted over the breathtaking sweep of Skywarp's thrusters in the civilian's engineer's hands, but Frenzy absently accessed it. A short video popped up, playing from an angle he was familiar with through long partnership. Ratbat had sent him something recorded earlier that day.<p>

Frenzy pried enough of his attention away to watch it.

_"Yeah, this is Ratbat. He's a pain in the aft, so feel free to ignore him." The small Decepticon Cassetticon smirked up at the civilian leader of the Decepticon colony, and the other Decepticons all snorted in amusement. The soldiers knew better than to put any stock in Frenzy's off-handed snark; Ratbat's orders **were** often a pain, but they carried a lot of weight. The civilians had been out of touch with Cybertron's war-time bureaucratic structure for 4 million years, however. They had no idea of Ratbat's real authority. Frenzy had just tainted their first impression of an already size-disadvantaged officer._

Ratbat hadn't shown it at the time, but Frenzy had known his technimal Cassetticon pal was going to make him pay for that comment. He'd gone too far. Ratbat was…not pleased. That was a thing to fear. Frenzy just hadn't thought to guard against vengeance in the middle of a party, of all places.

The overall feel of the video clip seeped ominous and too fast for comfort into Frenzy's thoughts: _not forgotten, not forgiven._

A little voice squeaked up as the engineer apologized to the two Seekers and two Cassetticons for going into such depth on the new thruster ignition points. "Oh, don't stop on our account," Ratbat dismissed the apology. "Didn't you know? Frenzy very much…**enjoys**...feet."

The words seemed to slow time, deepening the tiny Cassetticon's voice with sinister undertones despite the conversational way he spoke. Just the voice was a shock, enough to catch everyone's attention. Ratbat never spoke. The smallest of Soundwave's Cassetticons had long been concerned with energy efficiency above all else, adopting his job of fuel auditor as a lifestyle. Speaking was inefficient when brief noises and databursts sent comm.-to-comm. could convey just as much information. Speaking words aloud just invited further conversation, and that was a waste of time and words he wouldn't condone.

However, what many a foolish mech forgot was that Ratbat was a Decepticon warrior. His devotion to the cause often manifested in ruthless efficient bureaucracy. That was something that seemed inane to the units and outposts he audited but came back lauded in commendation from Shockwave and Megatron himself when the final reports tallied. When he chose - or when he had no choice, as even Soundwave occasionally spited his wishes and sent him into battle against the Autobots - Ratbat applied his brutal mathematics to war.

Only Decepticons outside the Elite dared called him a coward for his fighting style. The Elite Decepticons knew better. They recognized his hovering form high above them or flitting in their shadows as they fought. He was a patient observer waiting for the ideal moment. And when that moment arrived, they'd grin in vicious applause as precisely targeted weapons utterly destroyed their enemies. Ratbat's Cassetticon form had no room for excess weaponry, but when he chose to use it, precision strikes eliminated instead of injured.

Words, on or off the battlefield, were weapons, too. When he chose to use them, Ratbat fired them off in fearsomely accurate volleys that stripped his targets of bluster, slipped past raised defenses, and hit with the power of an explosion. The timing had to be flawless, but Ratbat excelled at waiting for the perfect time.

Frenzy stared at him, optic band wide. Disbelief froze the Cassetticon in place, unable to process the magnitude of betrayal. Skywarp, Thundercracker, and the nameless civilian seemed caught in that perfect, timeless moment as the words sunk in, and Frenzy couldn't stop them from hearing. The simple, casual words seized Frenzy's fuel pump in a panicked vice and _squeezed_. There wasn't enough time to retaliate. There wasn't a way to take the words back, or cast doubt on Ratbat's tidbit of information. Because that's what Ratbat did, doling out information and orders in beautifully impassive packets that disregarded the actual lives impacted by his emotionless equations.

Except when he wanted that impact, of course. Then he measured the impact to the exact pressure and damage needed to fit the situation. In this case, Frenzy had no time to retreat, no place to retreat to, and no way to run damage control on the simple words that ruined his reputation on Earth, Cybertron, and this new planet as well. Oh, the words soared gloriously through the air. They sank into the larger Decepticons almost visibly while Frenzy's hands clutched helplessly on thin, empty air. Disbelief broke open, cold denial evaporating agonizingly as the shock splashed, and embarrassment bloomed hot and fast over his face. Involuntary reaction, impossible to conceal, and it was all the evidence the three larger Decepticons needed to confirm the facts as the words processed.

Ratbat flipped his wings into neat folds, smug payback and cool disdain in one self-contained motion.

**[* * * * *]**


	13. Sound Crew: Caught

**Title: **Backstage: Sound Crew

**Warnings: **Silliness, and sensuality. A fetish, and reaction to it. Foul language.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Soundwave, Ratbat, Frenzy, Thundercracker, Skywarp

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **_____Scenario - getting discovered doing something truly embarrassing_____

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><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

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><p>Ratbat settled back, hanging motionless from Thundercracker's forearm. The jet had half-raised his arm from the chair's armrest when the little technimal spoke, but disbelief had frozen the motion in midair. Now the Cassetticon hung at an odd angle with the peaceful stillness of someone who had well and truly gotten his revenge. It took no energy to send out vibes of smug victory.<p>

Losing took a lot of energy. Actually, it pretty much sucked energy out of its victim and flared it out to catch as much attention as possible. Embarrassment stood out from Frenzy like a geothermal event. Hook a power converter up to him and the jagged waves of shame flaring in his aura could produce energon cubes. His notorious temper squashed under the weight of panic, and shame brought his hands up defensively instead of angrily.

"I - I - wait, i-it's not what you think!" Skywarp's jaw had dropped when Ratbat's tidbit of information hit home, and Frenzy's empty palms waved as if he could push the jet's mouth shut. As if things could smooth over just like that. Frenzy reached for calm and got a surging torrent of fear. "I'm not - I mean, he's just - I wouldn't - c-couldn't - hold on, hold on, don't look at me like I - "

His imagination obligingly produced sixty different scenarios of how his humiliation would spread through the Decepticon ranks. A Cassetticon with a foot fetish. It'd hand the world of larger 'bots a surefire key to tormenting him daily. All it would take is a subtle twist of the heel as he passed, and the lowest-ranked soldier could hold his deepest secret over his head for the world to see.

Thundercracker's optics were wide and bright red with surprise, flicking between Ratbat and Frenzy uneasily. The technimal rested, completely at ease. Frenzy all but writhed in agonized contrast, almost tripping as he hastily backed away from Skywarp's open thrusters as if suddenly realizing how thoroughly his avid watching had given his interest away. Thundercracker tucked his own feet back around behind the base of his chair. Not that the small Cassetticon could do anything to him, but something about _feet_ turning the little mech's engines left Thundercracker cold. It just didn't make sense. At least, not to Thundercracker, and not understanding something gave him an aversion to it.

Ratbat obviously got what made his fellow Cassetticon tick, however, as Frenzy's squirming had degenerated quickly. That particular pleading whine had an involuntary sound to it, sort of like Starscream when he stared down Megatron's fusion cannon. "C'mon, Skywarp! I'd never laid a finger on you!"

It obviously hit Frenzy exactly how wrong that sounded at the same time it occurred to Thundercracker, because the blue jet recoiled hard enough to knock Ratbat's head against the chair while the technimal broke his smug silence enough to interject a chortle into the horrified pause. Frenzy's defensiveness kicked up a notch, but his commlink clicked on ferociously:

_*"You dirty slagger! Frag you sideways with a Roto-Rooter! I'll saw your wings off with a dull spoon and **feed** them to you when I catch you! Filthy flying sack of waste! Pigeon-fucking, duck-waddling ball of Insecticon smelt! I'll - I'll **get** you for this!"*_

Ratbat didn't even bother replying.

"W-wait, that's not - I didn't mean - it's not that I don't _want_ to - no, no wait - oh, frag me." Frenzy's hands trembled a bit as he held them out in helpless appeal. Conflicting emotions tore at his self-control, and deep in his spark was a filtered poke of outside alarm as Rumble picked up on his twin's panic.

Even more distant, a background hum of concern rose in the back of his mind. Soundwave couldn't sense his spark like Rumble, but evidently the communication officer was close enough to see Rumble's reflected distress. Neither could contact him via the comm. network with him here on Pentayear, but they both were trying to check on him. That only magnified his own ricocheting state of mind.

Thundercracker was staring at him with some form of disgust painted across his face, and that was a bad sign. Thundercracker was the tolerant one of his trine. Skywarp still seemed sunk in shock. Any moment now, the more volatile black-and-purple Seeker was going to lash out with the loud-mouthed reactionary hate characteristic of Skywarp encountering anything he didn't get. Skywarp would publically air the whole issue, pummel Frenzy's pride to tiny, itty-bitty pieces, and then the whole slagging party would know.

He could kiss his dignity goodbye. A foot fetish? When it came to perversions, unless most of the galaxy _had it_, most 'bots typically didn't _get it._ Things people didn't understand made for wonderful gossip, and a great big representative slice of Decepticon civilians and soldiers were present - just in this building alone! - -to not get it and then talk about it at length with everyone they met for the next eternity.

Frenzy was screwed like a Phillip's screwdriver up the aft. Only more spectacularly. A screwdriver with fireworks spelling out _'Freak with an unnatural lust for your feet! Feel free to point and laugh!'_

Oh, Ratbat was good.

Frenzy was going to kill him.

If, that is, he didn't die of embarrassment first. The way his own foot kept lodging itself in his mouth, it wasn't surprising that he had a fetish for other mechs'. Even as Frenzy sputtered and apologized and corrected and basically dug a nice deep hole for himself, a nagging thought kept wondering how the inside of Skywarp's thruster might taste. He really wanted to find out. Would there be the tingle of leftover ionization in the air inside, or maybe a smoky aftertaste on the metal itself? He wanted to twine his fingers in the exposed cables, pull them downward in intimate caress, and mouth the end of the Seeker's elegantly whorled thrusters. He wanted to lick and nibble until Skywarp moaned. He wanted to see the jet's face from over the rim.

He'd frozen mid-flinch, keeping his shoulders hunched in preparation. Prisoners waiting for condemnation expected more mercy than him. A roiling hatred for Ratbat and irrepressible lust collided between mind and body and fell like a wave of heat down the inside of his chest plate. It was a sick, filthy sensation that he never, ever wanted to experience. Yet at the same time, it was silky as an oil spill and hotter than a sheet of fire, and he never wanted it to end.

It all flashed persistently through his head, and cringing humiliation at his continued perversion compacted in his throat over his vocalizer. It sat there like a lump of lead.

Frenzy stared mutely up Skywarp, waiting for judgment, and part of him secretly anticipated the kick he knew Skywarp was going to aim his way.

**[* * * * *]**


	14. Sound Crew: Win

**Title: **Backstage: Sound Crew

**Warnings: **Silliness, and sensuality. A fetish, and reaction to it. Foul language.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Soundwave, Ratbat, Frenzy, Thundercracker, Skywarp

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **______Win______

* * *

><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

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><p>The civilian swiveled in his seat, speaking up in the sudden, waiting silence. "Yes, he does have a good set, doesn't he?"<p>

A more offhanded comment couldn't have been made. Skywarp blinked as the engineer slid his open thrusters around. The civilian calmly shifted the Seeker's legs from one side of his lap to the other, trapping them in place with a hand securely wrapped around an internal strut. He gave Skywarp no warning or chance to fight back before he tugged, and the Seeker yelped as he struggled for balance on his chair. Having his legs raised took any leverage he had away, and Skywarp scrambled at the armrests. While the jet was floundering about trying not to get dumped onto the floor, the engineer beckoned Frenzy closer.

The Cassetticon didn't seem to have any way to stop himself from obeying the gesture. His optics flickered from Skywarp's flailing to the _gorgeous_ feet being presented to him. It wasn't like he could get any more embarrassed, right? For Primus' sake, half of the party was watching, too, observing Skywarp's flustered efforts to sit up with amusement. Laughter rippled through the room. Frenzy might as well get his jollies in before the laughter turned on him.

"Did you see the air ionizer? My design incorporates a magnetized element clip to filter out the heavy atmospheric metals. The clip scrapes down into this trap here when the air pressure is sufficient…" A delicate line traced over the clip, holding Frenzy's fascinated attention. A funny fizzling sound came from Skywarp as the Seeker finally caught his balance. "It affects drift velocity, of course, having another filter in the way of ion flow, but the total voltage is boosted by the circular nature of the metal trap. See here?" Wires were picked out of a coil and firmly tapped to ensure that the Cassetticon knew what he was talking about.

Skywarp's vocalizer, readied for the hot-headed tirade Frenzy had been dreading a moment ago, squeaked into emergency cut-off. Alternate modes were always sensitive until a Cybertronian's core build adjusted to the new sensor network. Changing a single plate of armor rearranged the entire grid of cables and hinges for a transformation sequence, and therefore the whole interwoven web of wiring and fuel lines had to be rerouted. Taking a new alternate mode sent a mech's body into temporary overdrive. Half the reason the 'invading' Decepticon soldiers were intent on partying instead of working was because it gave them an excuse to let their bodies settle down into normal parameters.

Skywarp's body had not settled. Not yet. The repairwork had already been doing some, ah, shivery things to his sensitive internal systems. This…was not repairwork.

The black-and-purple Seeker involuntarily tried to kick. The engineer made a displeased moue and popped him behind the knees. The joints unlocked, and only Skywarp's wings clonking into the armrests saved him from a sudden introduction to the floor. The room giggled. Even Thundercracker snorted, covering laughter with a cough. Skywarp scowled up at him, opening his mouth again to tell the whole fragging world what he thought of this slag - but a gasp came out instead. Thundercracker stared, surprised, as his wingmate arched.

The engineer smiled wickedly and stroked a second, lingering finger down the ion accelerator. Frenzy wasn't the only mech gaping appreciatively at Skywarp's wide optics and tensed, shaking body.

He might have been the only one watching the civilian's hands just as attentively. The thumbs were rubbing small circles down the seals on the fuel lines; Skywarp's pelvic frame, suspended between straining back and thighs, twisted in unconscious echo of the motion as each flexible ridge was thumbed. Skywarp's face was locked in a tormented grimace echoed by the hands clawing into the chair. Pleasure so unexpected it bloomed intense as pain up his legs pinned the Seeker in place. Thundercracker looked almost impressed.

"Good set," the engineer repeated, crooning just a little patronizingly. "**I** would know. I designed them, after all. I know exactly what they can do." He raised an optical ridge at the goggling Cassetticon and tweaked his way down the wire web connected to the inner layer of armor, ostensibly checking the leads but in actuality just making Skywarp thrash and whimper. "And what I can do to them," he said in cruelly purring undertone.

"Nice set of feet," the civvie finished. He gave the open thrusters a pat and pushed them off his lap. "They should be operational now. Let me know if there are any further problems." A bland smile goodbye, and the engineer walked away.

Some of the surrounding mechs turned to watch him go, but the civilians were apparently used to his antics. He vanished into the party as quickly as he'd appeared. The rest of the observers watched as Skywarp slumped in his seat, legs still lewdly butterflied open but feet planted on the floor. He panted air through his intakes and dimmed his optics. A few daring mechs chuckled at his discomfiture.

Thundercracker eyed him appreciatively. For all that he didn't get the whole _liking feet_ thing, he had to admit that…whatever that was…had been smoking hot. Frenzy still gawked at the open thrusters like he saw a never-ending fount of high-grade flowing inside. A tiny twinge of what could have been revelation dinked into the back of Thundercracker's mind. He'd never really thought about it, but mechs went for the Seekers because of their wings a lot of the time. Feet weren't all _that_ different. Maybe.

He didn't want to think about it. The whole thing left him uneasy, and he didn't want to think about it further. Let the pipsqueak Cassetticon like feet. What did he care? "I suppose that means you're off the casualty list," he said at his wingmate, aiming for neutral and ending up with a questioning note in his voice.

Skywarp roused himself enough to aim a slightly bleary glare in his direction. It bounced off armor developed through eons of experience putting up with Starscream, who had mastered a glare with far more evil and screech behind it. Stymied arousal just didn't have the necessary firepower to melt a hole in Thundercracker's head.

The bounced glare landed on Frenzy. The little Decepticon glanced up, licking his lips and swallowing without thinking at the sight of Skywarp's hazy desire. At this distance, they could both hear each other's systems laboring. Skywarp, at least, had an excuse. Frenzy fidgeted.

Skywarp's optics sharpened, considering his options. There was a fit of rage, which was a fairly good option; loud, guaranteed to humiliate Frenzy into a steaming puddle, and it would serve as a mediocre release valve on what Skywarp felt right now. Option #2 was storming out in a huff, which probably wouldn't do his own reputation any good. He could try finding the engineer and demanding the mech finish what he'd started, but that option would probably lead to a messy confrontation. What Skywarp had in mind wasn't exactly diplomatic, and it would likely push guest rules here on Pentayear.

Or there was Option #3: he could choose to be flattered. It seemed the wisest choice. Everyone knew that Seekers had the best wings, but feet? Slag, it'd never even crossed his mind. Sort of how he'd never noticed that Frenzy's hands were so very tiny and capable. They were the kind of hands that could get into every nook and cranny. His optics dropped to them, beginning to take on a covetous gleam. Hands like that, with Frenzy's own version of motivation behind them, had distinct possibilities.

Thundercracker sat back in his seat as Skywarp pushed up to his feet. An interlocking series of clicks sounded as his lower legs closed, the complicated apparatus weaving back into heavy bells below the knee. Frenzy watched somewhat mournfully.

"I'll update Starscream on my status tomorrow," the black-and-purple Seeker said cheerfully to his wingmate. "Hey, Frenzy. Heel, boy!"

The Cassetticon did a double-take as the larger Decepticon strode off, snapping his fingers. The onlookers laughed. Frenzy glanced back at Thundercracker, but the Seeker seemed just as shocked as him. After a second's hesitation - Skywarp whistled, and half the party laughed uproariously - an incredulous grin spread across Frenzy's face.

He scampered off after those glorious, gorgeous feet suddenly within his grasp, and left his shame behind.


	15. Stage Hands: Brawl

**Title: **Backstage: Stage Hands

**Warnings: **Powerplay? Buncha helpless Decepticons? Reprogramming.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Combaticons, Decepticons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt):** _Scenario - seeking oblivion_

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><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

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><p>It felt like coming home.<p>

Brawl knelt at Megatron's feet, and he could not remember what else it might have felt like. There was rage, and there was violence, but in the end, there was always Megatron. Shout loud enough to shake screws loose from the walls and demolish buildings with a fight, but Megatron would still endure. The universe turned its predetermined course and deposited him back here, knee joints planted firmly before the Supreme Commander of the Decepticons.

_Onslaught_, he thought dimly, and there was a thick barrier blocking his thoughts. It felt like a wall pushing up against the outside edge of his right optic, applying pressure on his bare cerebral circuits. It should have hurt, but it didn't. Brawl just felt somewhat uncomfortable, as if he were being compressed by an alternate mode too small for his primary build.

His unit-commander should have been more important, and he thought he knew that. Maybe. But there was a nonexistent pressure bearing down his mind, and the thought wasn't certain.

The Combaticons weren't just a unit anymore. They had become one, the carefully reconstructed lasercore in Brawl's chest configuring tick by tick to the other members of his new team. He could feel them as faint shadows at the edge of his core, the edges clearing into definite personalities and thoughts as their lasercores ticked toward total integration. Countdown to completion, and statistics were scrolling up the side of Browl's HUD, updating him on positions and fuel levels and temperature gauges that weren't his own. The stats ticked, and to their counting numbers, parts of him were rearranging.

He couldn't control it, physically or mentally. In a peculiar way, he didn't want stop it; he wanted it to hurry up and _finish_, already. Combining into Bruticus had rushed the process, not completed it, and the incomplete sensation was maddening. They were - Brawl was – weak until the combiner programming finished integration.

The weakness wouldn't stop there, however. Not really. Earth bodies and sadistic ingenuity had freed him from Shockwave's prison and slaved his body and mind to four other Decepticons in the same grand stroke. The gestalt circuitry burned like minute fires following the wires under his armor; the Cybertronian technology melded but not merged with Earth materials, and he hated Starscream all over again. Five million years in prison, and the Air Commander of the fraggin' Decepticons couldn't even manage to make them real bodies for their return?

He liked the tank form. He had to hand that to Starscream: at least the fragger had picked an appropriate Earth alternate mode for him.

And he knew how complicated lasercores were because he'd ripped out his fair share before and crushed them beyond saving. He didn't understand the construction, but he'd known it would be fiendishly difficult to come back online the same way he'd gone off. Shockwave's prison sentence had been meant to do more than isolate Brawl in a box. The process of restoring him post-sentence would have likely resulted in a mech who bore only superficial resemblance to pre-imprisonment Brawl. It had something to do with the balance between personality core and lasercore, and getting that balance just right was really important. The sentence hadn't really been about the time in the box so much as the knowledge that Brawl, the original Brawl, probably wouldn't be the one to get out again. His body - lasercore inside - had been melted down after extraction and imprisonment of his mind.

He didn't understand much more than that. Brawl wasn't known for his patience, and the others in his unit had been more concerned with their own lasercores at the time than explaining the threat to him. Shockwave hadn't kept them waiting long. Prison, prison sentence - boom: little storage box for half an eternity. No time for optimism or an escape plan. Just facts that Brawl didn't really get.

Starscream had spent a painstaking amount of time accurately rebuilding their lasercores and installing them. Sure, he'd installed them in the junked-up Earth vehicles he'd found on that little island, but internal balance meant more than external armor. The external bits could be changed out or modified. Brawl knew that. He didn't _feel_ any different than he remembered, so Starscream's careful work had probably succeeded. Real Cybertronian bodies or not, at least they'd come back online as the same mechs.

The charge coursing between lasercore and personality components had unwound the spark plasma Shockwave had imprisoned them in, and Brawl had come online feeling murderous. That, and feeling the constant, irritating shocks as brand new, horrifyingly new, unexpected and unasked for and _controlling_ gestalt circuitry linked up. The writhing ball of electricity-snapping plasma churning between lasercore and personality component now had an additional, outside source - and drain. The combiner programming and components sent him into chaos and acted as stability, all at once.

Brawl couldn't get rid of it, and from what he _did_ understand, he couldn't live without it, either. It supported and chained him. His understanding of that fact was becoming clearer as time passed. It wasn't really his understanding, per se, so much as his unit-team's, combiner-team's understanding. That pissed him off, because it only ground jagged shards of undeniable truth into his very spark where his hands couldn't tear it free.

Earth was stupid. The Earth Autobots were stupid. Acting stupid along with Megatron's stupid plans was stupid. He'd been too full of hate for the stupid things to give a slag about gratefulness to Starscream or anyone. Yeah, sure, restored with extreme, patient care - whatever. Megatron would have freed them eventually. Onslaught had, even before Bruticus, forged the Combaticons into an invaluable team. Then Onslaught's takeover had failed and Shockwave had gotten his aft shot, but so what? Ol' One-Optic would get over his illogical little snit, and they'd be back in action.

Okay, so it had taken five million years. Big deal. They had time, and Onslaught was good at that long-term planning stuff. They didn't need this gestalt slag, and they definitely didn't need to cooperate with Megatron's stupid plan. Even Onslaught had looked askance when Megatron's Earth plan was explained, and Onslaught did tactics. Stupid Megatron. They had bodies, and they apparently had to have each other, so what - or who - else did they really need?

Then the Air Commander had held his bag of missing vital systems over their heads like a mech withholding treats his pets, and things had gone straight to the smelter. Starscream had explained Megatron's plans, but the tricky Second had his own plans. Plans that he had been able to make the Combaticons go along with.

Brawl didn't do plans. Plans were for team leaders and commanders who sent him out to smash things, because Brawl _did_ smashing things. _Onslaught,_ Brawl thought, dim and disliking it, and on the edge of his consciousness something despairing stirred. Too feebly to matter, but it was hard to remember why it should.

Starscream had failed, of course, because the Supreme Commander wasn't that easy to defeat. The Combaticons had been exiled onto that asteroid, but they'd been whole. They'd been free. There were no limits to their freedom, no more boxes or threats to their lasercores, and they'd seized the opportunity.

They'd returned to Cybertron, returned from exile, and vengeance had been waiting, hot and strong. Oh, the sweet, high pleasure that sang over the erratic gestalt link! It'd twined in joyful glee around their conjoined sparks as Shockwave disappeared into Cybertron's sky. That's what it had felt like when Starscream had been at their mercy on the asteroid, fear and inferno-deep rage glaring up at Brawl as he held the exiled Second in Command down and _pounded_. It had been physical, hold-in-his-hands revenge. First Starscream, next Shockwave, and then the stupid fraggers came back to Cybertron, and _both at once_, like Primus personally delivered the quicksilver excitement that poured down Brawl's back.

It had been home, that feeling. Brawl's old friends: delight in violence and never-ending anger. He hadn't had to plan, because Onslaught, as always, had been there. Closer than before, maybe. More controlling and binding nearer with every shivering _click click_ of reconfiguring machinery inside him, but Bruticus wasn't so bad. Not…like the statis box, where Brawl's rage had just bounced off the walls inside his mind. Not like Shockwave's prison, where he didn't understand anything. Bruticus just slotted in, wrapping everything up into the link. Those shadowed forms he knew as teammates – gestaltmates – bound around his spark until they were one and the same; his violence permeated the plans and greed and interrogation and he didn't know what all.

Brawl didn't have to understand. He didn't even have to think. If he'd ever wanted to think about it, he'd have thought that he preferred it that way.

An opaque thought, slower than a dead mech's final drop of filthy engine oil, gurgled nauseatingly to the surface: _…Onslaught_.

The barrier closed down, quickly-flitting numbers and words writing codes that meshed through his personality code, and Brawl shook his head. The wall pressing against his right optic had a twin now, slowly forcing its way against the left, but it wasn't his vision that changed. There wasn't actual physical pressure, but that was the only thing Brawl knew to compare it to. Something was shifting, narrowing down around him, and he didn't know what. It bothered him. Not much, less and less every passing moment, but it did.

On the other side of the block, a shadow shape slumped in defeat, and Brawl knelt at Megatron's feet. There was rage, and there was violence, and there was always, always Megatron - and Brawl found his oblivion therein.

It felt like home.

He could not remember what else it might have felt like.


	16. Stage Hands: Vortex

**Title: **Backstage: Stage Hands

**Warnings: **Powerplay? Buncha helpless Decepticons? Reprogramming.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Combaticons, Decepticons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt):** _ Too much talking_

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><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

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><p>Scrapper talked too much.<p>

At that moment, Vortex couldn't have been more grateful for that fact. Let the mech talk. Talk some more, Scrapper. About what? Who the frag cared. So long as Vortex could see the Constructicon speaking with Shockwave, it meant that he was still present. He still had a body. He had no control of that body, but it was there. Teasing at the edge of his mind, all the switches tripped to _off_ and out of his hands, but it was there.

He'd spent 5 million years without that faint echo at the very border of his mind indicating he had a head. Five million years trapped in a box had made Vortex _that aware_ of a tiny sensation like that. Time had ingrained the pathetic feel of being just a personality component, his mental core trapped inside the plasma of his very spark and filed neatly into a literal prison block.

Aware? Hyper-aware. He could map out the wavering limits where thought brushed processor, linked him to a body he couldn't actually touch, and he held onto that not-sensation with the desperation of 5 million years _without_. The continuous pulse of electricity throbbing around his mind was another of those not-sensations he greedily absorbed; he scrambled to fully map basic life functions and vital system logs. He needed to remember and never let it go. Circuitry and wires, programming and codes, lasercore and spark and armor: they were the tiny, forgettable, unimportant details that were a whole world.

These things could be taken away. Were taken away. Had been taken away once, 5 million years ago, and Vortex had only his mind to twitch at the horror of having it taken away again. His body wasn't gone yet, but it hung around him like a cloudy presence. It wasn't _his_. The only thing left to him was the memory of his senses, and it wasn't enough.

Vortex knew what it took to make someone break. Bodies faltered if mind tricks didn't unfold prisoners first. Vortex used himself as another interrogation tool. He could fly until even he didn't know which way was up, if gravity still applied, when the crash would come, and he _loved it_. Had to have it, truth be told, and to him it inevitably would be. He'd been the best in his chosen field, and interrogation had been his addiction as much as career.

The relentless assault of chaos could only be ridden by a disturbed mind, and Vortex had a VIP pass on that ride. His prisoners? Not so much. Take a grounder for a wild ride up in a cyclone, and gyros would destabilize. The turbulent air created a world of false input that forced systems out of sync with a mind that knew differently, and Vortex could see it happen. He could cause it, took great pleasure in causing it, and then came the delicious moment when he dove through the whirlwind and drove questions like spikes into that gap. Interrogations were recipes: a little pain here, a pinch of confusion there. Add a peppering of logic where it would do the most harm, and sometimes shake in some pleasure, involuntary and humiliating. Let it stew in the brig, or maybe call in some bruisers to punch out the raw ingredients into a more malleable shape. He could lever answers out of the toughest Autobot like a versatile cook challenged to work with any ingredient thrown at him.

Combat had a more brutal, immediate edge, but Vortex enjoyed it, too. Flight and firepower were more tools, and prisoners were the reward for tools used well. Afterward, because he was very good, he'd get to interrogate the prisoners. Vortex did, after all, know the trade inside and out.

Even Shockwave had noted that about him 5 million years ago, in the last few moments before audio feed had cut off. Without that, the words had been flashing light as Shockwave's optic had reacted to unheard syllables. The patterns could be read, yes, but only if the one-opticked loyalist had stayed within sight. Sight had quickly followed audio, however, as the connections between personality core and body were severed.

And then Vortex had been left with nothing. He'd spent 5 million years wondering what exactly Shockwave had said after the cut off. He'd wondered with decreasing hope and increasing insanity. Perhaps it had been a second of regret for losing Vortex's skill, and in that direction lay hope that egged insanity on. If Shockwave had regretted, he might remember, and Vortex might be reactivated. Hope had bent Vortex's thoughts at right angles and sharpened them, making blades of thought because it was his only remaining tool. The solitary victim left for his interest and entertainment and amusement was the mind trapped in that prison box. He, himself, was all he'd had left for an eternity of turning in on himself in the search for anything outside the box.

Time could not be measured within that box, and side-by-side with hope had come anguish. It'd tortured him in that timeless wait. Hope caused insanity, and insanity eventually broke a mech. Vortex knew this, because he was an expert at driving mechs beyond their tolerances. Facing the process himself had given him no comfort because the other end of the spectrum offered no sanctuary. It had been either hope or despair in that box, and part of Vortex rebelled against giving up that way. Although he knew better. He'd known prisoners only had value if they were useful, and Shockwave's sentence made it clear that he felt the Combaticons' usefulness to be at an end.

_Onslaught_. Reflexive and below the level of actual thought, and for an agonizing fragment of a micro-second, Vortex thought he felt something. He didn't know what. It didn't matter. He clutched at the sensation with mental hands that didn't grip, and it slipped away.

Vortex knew what it took to make prisoners break, and he'd broken fellow Decepticons for fun before. He drank in sight because he would not break like this. He silently, motionlessly urged Scrapper to keep talking because it gave him just a little more time to gather sensation. He memorized the limitation of his mind, studying where mind lost control of body, because he would remember and retain and _would not break_. It didn't matter what they did to him. He refused to break.

Shockwave and that blasted, talkative Constructicon could take away his body, melt down his lasercore, and fold his spark energy back around his personality components. They could destroy him outright or stick him in a tiny prison to rot. They could poke with delicate little tools and torments at his vulnerable mind like sadistic scientists chasing a chattering experiment 'round and 'round a cage.

…that sounded sort of fun, really.

Regardless, Vortex wouldn't break. Taking his body away again only deprived them of an important tool in an interrogator's repertoire, even if they were too amateurish to realize it now. He knew they weren't trying to question him - he had no information they wanted - but it gave him concrete purpose. Resisting his own unstable mind would be the only hobby to occupy his attention forevermore, once Scrapper stopped his infernal yapping and let Shockwave get back to the imprisonment.

Vortex lay suspended in lockdown, grasping at even the dead weight of a body, and buried under his last-minute, desperate scramble for sensation whimpered a sensualist gelded. He could feel _nothing_, and the circuitry of his open head crackle-popped in the silent, crazed, sobbing laughter of the already broken.


	17. Stage Hands: Blast Off

**Title: **Backstage: Stage Hands

**Warnings: **Powerplay? Buncha helpless Decepticons? Reprogramming.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Combaticons, Decepticons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt):** _ "This conversation can serve no purpose anymore. Goodbye." - HAL 9000_

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><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

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><p>How disgusting, that 'normal' for the Combaticons involved guarding a…the…<p>

…well, as usual, Blast Off didn't really know _what_ it was. Vortex and Swindle were debating names for it, and _Stunticon Redux_ had been the most flattering choice so far. Hook had looked up from its insides long enough to pitch a piece of pipe in their general direction when that one had been suggested. The Constructicons were apparently still a bit sore about creating the car wreck in progress otherwise known as the Stunticons. That meant dubbing the…thing…_Stunticon Redux_ had become an instant favorite among the Decepticons idling nearby.

Swindle had set up a poll on the short-range communication frequency and began taking votes. Bonecrusher had threatened bodily harm. Swindle switched to anonymous voting.

'Normal' on Earth was a somewhat relative term.

On Earth, Skywarp hovered in the air above the ocean and did a ridiculous human dance every time he signaled the docking tower to rise. It had some kind of ritual significance, or so he declared when asked. Why a highly ranked weapon of mass destruction waggling his aft in imitation of some kind of feathered avian was significant escaped Blast Off.

On Earth, Dirge, Ramjet, Mixmaster, and Blitzwing could - and did - sing the national anthem of every human country on the blasted planet, and they did it intentionally out of harmony and in the wrong languages. The quartet of audio torture openly hired themselves out to whomever felt the need to get Soundwave back for something. The more they were paid, the higher Dirge's fake falsetto squeaked.

On Earth, Megatron claimed to have no idea how the stolen billboards kept getting hung up on the _Victory_'s command bridge like bizarre art on the walls. Starscream had confided to the other Decepticons that the Supreme Commander had developed a horrid fetish for human advertisements. He'd immediately pointed to this as yet more proof of Megatron's unworthiness and another reason he, Starscream, should lead the Decepticons, and blah blah blah.

Starscream's familiar treachery had been cut short that time, Blast Off recalled. Rumble and Frenzy had run by the common room carrying a giant kayak and yelling something about white water. Later that week, Soundwave had sent Blast Off to pry the errant Cassetticons out of a deep part of the river in the Grand Canyon. They'd been utterly unrepentant. They'd held a slideshow in the common room detailing their adventure. It seemed, for reasons they couldn't adequately explain, to be mostly upside-down. They decided it wasn't extreme enough and had been negotiating with Thundercracker about towlines and with the Constructicons about something called 'water-skis' the last Blast Off heard.

And this was 'normal' on Earth. The _Stunticons_ were 'normal' on Earth.

It amazed him every day that the Autobots fell for it.

The Decepticons, mercenaries and patriots and cold-sparked slaggers to their cores, spent their days on Earth mocking Starscream to his face and betraying Megatron every other day. They disobeyed orders, broke ranks during battle, and lost to the humans. And the Autobots _fell for it._

How disgusting. The Autobots were Earth-mad in the worst way, something Blast Off hadn't fully understood in the short time between reactivation from imprisonment and banishment to the asteroid. If he'd understood, would he have reacted differently? Would he have refused to follow Starscream's real plan under the silly front put on for the watching Autobots? Would the Combaticons have stood at Megatron's side while the Air Commander was exiled alone?

Useless questions, questions that wouldn't change what had actually happened, but it was either think about that or stare at his fellow Decepticons' buffoonery. He wasn't around the other, more important players in Megatron's master plan often enough to have gotten used to their personal takes on the Earth act. He had to get used to seeing Decepticons acting like idiots every time. The clash between normal and 'normal' on Earth was disorienting.

That was also something that he had to wonder about. Would that be different? If they hadn't rebelled, hadn't used Bruticus to take over Cybertron and try to destroy Megatron, would things have changed? Maybe it would have.

Maybe the Combaticons wouldn't always be banished to the fringes of the Decepticon crew. Maybe they wouldn't obediently play the bit parts grudgingly handed them. They might still be stuck guarding the _Stunticon Redux_ - Constructicon wrath nonwithstanding - but after the upcoming sham of a battle, would the Combaticons follow the other Decepticons back to the underwater base? When Prime's pack of fools came to blow the stupid thing up, would Swindle film the Autobots and sell it to Laserbeak for the technimal Cassetticon's ongoing video show of stupid stunts? Would Vortex collect his winnings from the One-Liner Bingo game and nail his card on the Wall of Blame in the common room? Would Brawl and Blitzwing get into fistfights and yelling matches, emerging dented and waving a completed rulebook for the brute squad Cybertronian equivalent of American football? Would Onslaught get Humiliation Pay for pretending to be anything but the brilliant tactician he was?

Would the Combaticons in general get _paid?_ It was a question Swindle frequently asked.

Blast Off didn't know how his life might have been different. The gestalt circuitry would still be there; the combiner team would entwine through his mind, body, and spark like an unwanted presence overlapping him, or a constant, intimate contact. But when he returned from orbit after a mission or patrol, would he have his own, personal quirk to fool the Autobots with? Something to elaborate on himself instead of awkwardly performing a handful of lines assigned to him every time?

Every time he returned from guarding idiotic machines the Autobots spent far too much time and thought destroying, would he have to face his probation officer and accept the chain of a cerebro-shell placed on him every day like a leash? The original agreement between Bombshell, Starscream, and Shockwave had hammered out a definite rehabilitation period for the Combaticons. The three officers had apparently agreed that 5 million years in prison statis had punished them sufficiently for their crimes. It would have been probation, but comparatively light and short.

Instead, combiner team had come online after their failed takeover attempt with loyalty programming so deeply integrated into their gestalt codes that it took a lot of internal reflection for Blast Off to even notice them. Sometimes, he was still startled to find new aspects of behavioral deviations and thought limitations now forced on him.

Almost worse than the programming, the Combaticons were separated out from the other Earth Elite and sent to another base entirely. They were coldly cut off from their own kind. It made the situation _very_ clear to them: they were not Elite, and they were not actual warriors. They were prisoners, and Megatron was still deciding what to do with them after their usefulness in the Earth act expired. They were sent away to a base, into what looked like independence to the Autobots and was essentially a prison complex, and there they rotted.

The three Insecticons put in periodic appearances in Bali and Indonesia to distract the Autobots, but they'd come to Earth to stand guard over the prisoners. Shrapnel, Bombshell, and Kickback caged the Combaticons in that prison-base more effectively than half a dozen Decepticons stood guard on the _Stunticon Redux_.

When the Combaticons weren't visible about the base or among the other Decepticons on duty, they were clapped in chains. Inside the base buildings, safe from Autobot spies, their real duties awaited. Equipment from the Decepticon underwater base sat inside, ready for repairs and cleaning and whatever other scutwork Soundwave sent up from the ocean floor. Shrapnel assigned prison duties during the Combaticons' supposed 'off duty' times with hard efficiency, sending the Combaticons to their knees scrubbing barnacled, greasy machinery, or keeping them busy doing basic maintenance work. The Insecticon probationary officer accepted no excuses and allowing no slacking, and despite his size compared to them, the combiner team feared him.

A few necessary times having their bodies under Shrapnel's control had taught them all the value of just doing what they were told. Disobedience brought hours trapped inside their own bodies, 40,000 volts of electricity as reminders of what exactly they were, or - worse yet - being written up on report. On those thankfully rare occasions, Kickback would take one or another of them aside and, well, Blast Off didn't like to think about those times. Kickback was very good at what he did. With the Combaticons prostrate under loyalty programming, chains, and fear of complete mindwipes, he did what he did best and let them go crawling back to the team broken a little more to heel every time.

Bombshell just seemed to specialize in making Blast Off's life a living Pit. The shuttle speculated so often on what life _would have been_ because life _as it was_ sucked like a black hole.

Speaking of which, best to get this over with.

He hailed his probationary office through the secure channel and tried not to feel the humiliation burn. *"Sir?"*

_*"What."*_

*"My shift ends at sundown, sir. Since we will not be returning to the base, I ask leave to - "*

_*"No, no."*_ Bombshell's voice shaded up from chilly acknowledgment into amusement at the request.

Blast Off's bitter embarrassment swelled with it. On the other side of the build site, Onslaught and Vortex looked up from their own quiet conversation as Blast Off's degradation flooded the gestalt link. He squelched it off, of course, but this wasn't an emotion he could consciously control. The other Combaticons found vastly more fascinating things to suddenly ask the Constructicons about, loudly and at length.

Blast Off loathed himself for the slight glimmer of gratitude for that. They'd all been thrown down and disgraced by their imprisonment at one point or another, but he could never predict how Swindle or Vortex would react on any given day to his shame. Brawl thought it entertaining, but the kind of simple glee Brawl radiated could be dealt with. Vortex's twisted interest or Swindle's calculating gaze stripped his gears down to the bare metal. Kickback's sinister understanding of what made Blast Off tic gave Bombshell endless ammunition, and the Insecticon took sick delight in digging that knowledge in and _wrenching._

The sun inevitably would set. When it did, Bombshell's cerebro-shell would come creeping through the shadows, undetectable to Autobot spies. Blast Off wouldn't even feel it jack in, infiltrating his circuitry, but there would abruptly be certain inhibitors like straight-line directives through his mind. They wouldn't allow him to move off the course set for him. There would be no chains around his limbs, but freedom was a mere dream.

For the purpose of the mission, the cerebro-shell had been removed. Off duty, however, Blast Off would be returned to the mental cage carefully set up for his personal imprisonment.

*"Sir,"* he started, unable not to try, *"Astrotrain goes on duty for the night shift. He's technically the superior officer on site, and it will look strange if I do not respond to him. If nothing else,"* he continued, knowing he wasn't persuading his probation officer but, Primus help him, he couldn't seem to stop, *"he is another shuttle. We speak while on missions. If I can only have leave for a single hour, I will - "*

_*"This conversation can serve no purpose anymore, anymore. Goodbye_."*

Mortification dripped down his chest and pooled heavy as iridium over his lasercore. Conversation over; don't call back, or else. All the Combaticons knew that tone.

Which meant that, in less than an hour, Blast Off would feel his own mind slip away. All the downloaded information the Combaticons needed to function on Earth came from Soundwave, and downloaded information was not the same as _learnt_ information. Blast Off had always known that, but he'd never had the difference slap him in the face before waking up on Earth. Learnt information could only be erased by a mindwipe. Downloaded information could be taken away with an ease that left him appalling ignorant.

The Decepticons on Earth, by orders, spoke and communicated only in Earth languages. When the cerebro-shell came, it'd cut off access to downloaded files. Without the downloads, Blast Off knew a smattering of English. Everything, _everything_ else he needed to know in order to interact with the mechs around him would shut off, and Megatron's orders explicitly forbade him from possibly giving away the game to the Autobots by trying other means of communication.

In less than an hour, Blast Off would be functionally illiterate and linguistically incapable.

When the cerebro-shell came, Blast Off would wither a bit inside under the other Decepticons' knowing optics. He'd keep his visor studiously down as he curled up around his cringing spark and sat as far away from the others as he could. If approached, he'd respond as briefly and reluctantly as possible. It might look like arrogance and aloofness to the spying Autobots, but he was simply trying to conceal how bad his spoken English remained and how very little of other languages he even understood. Bombshell had - mercifully or sadistically? - provided him with a datapad crammed with language data. Blast Off spent his precious, rare free time at the base and off duty and pretty much any time missions didn't allow for this kind of handicap learning from it. He had to.

So he'd sit alone, learning the grubby, noisy, awful details of Earth's native tongues. He'd painfully trace out the letters and characters with tiny motions of his fingers on the datapad, and under his breath he'd sound out the words. The other Decepticons barely even laughed at him for it anymore.

On Earth, this was 'normal.'

How disgusting.


	18. Stage Hands: Onslaught

**Title: **Backstage: Stage Hands

**Warnings: **Powerplay? Buncha helpless Decepticons? Reprogramming.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Combaticons, Decepticons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt):** _"My relationship to you can only be defined as masochistic."  
><em>

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><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

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><p>Punishment detail for regular Decepticon warriors was disgraceful, and often painful. For a Decepticon prisoner, that was everyday life. So when Shrapnel put a Combaticon on report, that Combaticon knew to feel regret long before Kickback even started. Because Kickback made prisoner punishment details…special.<p>

Onslaught already regretted this. But groveling and scraping under Kickback's personalized torment was a symptom of the disease, and the Combaticons would never be cured of it unless Onslaught did something about the situation. Involuntary loyalty to Megatron had been enough of a punishment for their rebellion, he felt. It took away any option of repeating their defiance.

Oh no, but that couldn't be enough. The Combaticons had to be an example. Shockwave was reactivating other prisoners back on Cybertron, and the Combaticons weren't enough of an example on their knees before Megatron. They'd nearly destroyed the Supreme Commander. They'd nearly given away the vast plot deceiving the Autobots, and wasted the time and energy spent on Earth to allow other conquests to continue. Megatron wanted them to _pay_ for what they'd done.

When summoned, the Combaticons crawled into the Decepticon leader's presence in gratitude for being spared. When dismissed, they thanked him for his mercy in not mindwiping them. Their voices were flat and forced, but if he could, Onslaught would add more words. After months of servitude, he was ready to beg.

He'd thought it temporary when they'd first been returned to Earth by Shockwave. Probation had been something to endure, because it was due punishment before release. The Elite Decepticons regarded them as little more than trash, footsoldiers of the lowest rank, but they had value. The Combaticons were a combiner team now. Bruticus magnified already their impressive individual abilities into an awesome battlefield force. Onslaught had been certain their worth would be recognized and utilized properly. There was so _much_ the Combaticons could do for the Decepticons!

Onslaught's strategic mind had recognized Megatron's master plan when given time, and he could contribute to the warlord's unfolding conquests offworld. Vortex topped the list of Decepticon interrogators, a valuable skill no matter the planet. Blast Off would be a welcome addition to any strike team for planetary scouting or precision orbital strikes. Brawl's brute force seemed simple at first, but his firepower was top of the line and searingly powerful with the aid of his gestalt linkups, now. Swindle already was borrowed by the Constructicons for special requisitions, and the main Decepticon divisions on Cybertron would have probably fought over who got the opportunistic trader…if he wasn't on probation.

If they weren't _all_ on probation. Permanently. Until Megatron finally finished on Earth and sent them back to scrub floors in Shockwave's tower, or mindwiped them, or sent them to the front lines to die as shock troops, of no more worth than the lowest-ranked soldier. That was bad. What was worse was that they couldn't do anything _about_ it.

Maybe Autobot prisoners got time off for good behavior, but the Combaticons slaved away at their assigned duties for the privilege of repairs by a competent repairmech after battles. Sometimes the Constructicons deigned to go against Megatron's explicit disapproval and implicit orders; they'd repair the Combaticons if the Insecticons thought their behavior adequate, or if Swindle acquired something of particular interest to the Engineering division. However, the Constructicons made it excruciatingly clear what they thought of repairing _prison scum_ while they did so. Such repairs always were accompanied by Scrapper doing a mandatory check of the loyalty programming. He made them recite rules and regulations and propaganda until Brawl was confused by what was coming out of his own mind and Blast Off's vocalizer scraped hoarse with unaccustomed speech.

Swindle fought pitched battles on the intergalactic market to earn them that particularly mortifying privilege, but most of the time, the Combaticons limped back to base and did their best to repair each other. They submitted to the chains around their limbs and orders given by Insecticons half as small as them because Decepticons didn't have choices like _'Behave or we'll take your extra rations away.'_ They got choices like _'Do what you're told when you're told how you're told…or else.'_

They were an example to the entire Decepticon faction, and they weren't going to end well. There would be no end to the probationary period, Onslaught had realized. They would be pitilessly degraded and pushed aside until they were known only as the combiner team more useful as maintenance mechs than as warriors. They'd rust under the Insecticon's harsh routine in that wasteland prison-base. If they were very lucky, Megatron would _let_ them return to Cybertron as maintenance mechs.

Onslaught had a tactician's mind. One thing to be said for probation: it gave that mind time to think. He'd pored over strategies as he mindlessly cleaned walls and polished equipment. He'd searched for a way out, exchanging snatches of thought with the other Combaticons in furtive planning sessions while they shamed themselves in front of the Autobots or passed in the base corridors. The Combaticons would not be…allowed…to overthrow Megatron. They'd viciously fight against anyone else who tried, in fact. The other Decepticons interacted with them only on missions, and strictly according to what Megatron's plan laid out. No real communication happened during those times; they were always _on stage_ for Autobot spies.

The Autobots thought the other Decepticons despised the Combaticons. They weren't far off the mark on that. Prisoners, especially prisoners so thoroughly subjugated, were beneath notice to warriors. The Elite of the Decepticons in particular. The Combaticons had no allies and absolutely no hope for a future there.

Which left Onslaught dredging the barrel of wishful thinking. He came up with a wisp of possibility. The others were as desperate as he and asked few questions. The less they knew, the more ignorance they could claim when it came down to explaining why exactly they were distracting their probation officers. As it was, Onslaught knew he was going to get it the moment the Insecticons realized their fifth prisoner had slipped his leash. The timetables Shrapnel laid down were exact for a reason, and Onslaught would be overdue for return from the _Victory_ in approximately half an hour. After that, every minute overdue lengthened punishment detail exponentially.

He paid the bribe to Thundercracker without protest, knowing the blue Seeker could refuse or even report him for this. Explaining why he was here right here, right now, and where he'd gotten even the couple cubes of energon to pay with would be an exercise in public humiliation. Vortex and Brawl had skimped their already-strict rations for weeks to pay for this, but it would all be worth it if this worked.

Thundercracker eyed askance the poor grade of energon but shrugged acceptance. Energon was energon; holding this over Onslaught's head was the real bribe. It ensured Bruticus would pay extra attention to any Autobots shooting up Thundercracker's tailfins the next time the gestalt went into battle. The blue Seeker leaned against the wall, optics dimming. Encrypted communications went back and forth, and Onslaught grew more and more tense.

Swindle had skimmed and simpered for weeks to buy little trinkets and gifts, and he'd paid the Cassetticons to deliver them to the Air Commander's office. That, too, was being held over the Combaticons as a whole. The Air Commander automatically turned down any request for audience from the Combaticons, and he didn't even acknowledge communication attempts. Hence, buttering him up with presents, and then bribing his trinemate to ask _for_ them.

Tactics. The tactics of weak, disgraced prisoners, but tactics nonetheless.

Onslaught's shattered sense of self-worth winced and tried to pull together the longer this drew out. Minutes ticked off, ever closer to the time limit looming over him, and he _knew_ what Kickback would do to him. Every second added that much more time onto the flight back, and the total time would be multiplied by whatever aggravation Shrapnel felt at being tricked by the other four Combaticons.

It was going to be very, very bad. Kickback could turn one duty shift into a time measurement of complete condemnation. Two reduced Swindle into offering anything, anything at all, so long as it appeased the Insecticon. Three sent Vortex into laughter fits that poorly covered his screaming, and Blast Off shook silently through missions for days afterward. No one but Onslaught had earned four shifts punishment detail, and he'd staunchly refused to reveal details even after waking nightmares kept his entire team from recharge because of the gestalt link.

Onslaught regretted even starting this train of thought. The Insecticon probation officer would make him regret living by the time he was through. Perhaps it would be better to cut his losses, creep back to the Combaticon base, and claim weather damage delayed him. It wouldn't spare him punishment, but Kickback might show a bit of leniency. Maybe. If Onslaught groveled a little, which was a bitter thought in and of itself.

Thundercracker's optics suddenly lit a bright red, and Onslaught snapped out of his black thoughts. "He'll see you," the jet sneered, "although only he knows why. **Remember** this, Combaticon!" Onslaught bent his head, silently accepting the debt heaped on his team's backs. Thundercracker eyed him a moment more, then turned on a thruster and walked off down the corridor. A mutter that might have been "_Prison dregs"_ drifted back through his wake, but Onslaught was used to the insults.

It was really only insulting if it weren't true, after all.

He gathered his courage, slamming mental doors on all the reasons why this was such a bad idea, and faced the door. He pinged _*"Sir?"*_ at the same time he tapped the access panel. Politeness never hurt, and it was a cheap submission he felt no shame in proffering. Starscream outranked him, if nothing else.

The door opened in answer, and Onslaught paused a moment on the threshold. Open doors weren't necessarily an invitation to enter. The Air Commander could, in all probability, simply want to deliver a dismissal order to his face before closing the door again. "Sir?" he asked again.

"Come in."

He stepped inside, feeling a traitorous surge of gratitude flare near his core. It ran, sick and dizzy, up against the last seconds of the time limit running out. Hope and dread collided in his chest, but it was too late to go back. He braced to attention. "Sir."

Starscream didn't immediately look up. He was working on something on the inbuilt terminal at the desk, peering intently if not with much interest at the screen. Onslaught could read mechs, and the trepidation dragging on his spark slicked an extra dollop of icy anxiety down internal systems. This wasn't the elaborate façade of a Decepticon playing power games. Starscream genuinely cared more about what he was working on than the Combaticon waiting for his attention. Power games weren't much fun unless the other player had some power, and Onslaught had none.

The time kept going, now running _up_, and what could he do about it? What could this jet do about it?

Why, of all Decepticons, Starscream?

He was undeniably a good-looking mech, if looks meant much in the middle of civil war. The red and blue was flashy, and the white added a nice contrast. He wouldn't be Onslaught's first choice for berth play, but he'd certainly look twice at the Seeker's aft. An excellent flyer, and quick, but the flight ranks had plenty of fast flyers. He had the rank to hold Megatron's audio, but so did Skywarp and Thundercracker and half the Elite Decepticons on Earth. Proximity alone ensured that, which prompted the vicious infighting back on Cybertron to fill any slots that opened on the Earth team. He wasn't even in the Onslaught's direct chain of command during fights, although of course he'd obey any orders given. If Onslaught had wanted that bit of connection with the jet, he'd have sent Blast Off or Vortex in his place.

No, Starscream had looks, and he had ability, and he had the power, but he had far more than that. He was the Air Commander. He held the air ranks in a manner no other flyer could possibly hope to mimic. He had some connection that Megatron valued above all others with similar looks and ability and powerbases.

Most important to Onslaught, however, was the peculiar bond he held to the Combaticons. It was a tenuous relationship, absurd at the first glance, and Onslaught would have laughed at the suggestion if he weren't so desperate. It defied easy definition or description beyond the obvious action: he'd _rebuilt_ them.

When the jet finally closed the terminal screen and looked up at him, Onslaught didn't even know how to put it into words. "Yes?" Starscream asked, evidently deciding the opening pause to be another form of respectful deference.

"Sir, I…" Onslaught fumbled for words. "The Combaticons…"

The Air Commander leaned back in his seat, not relaxed but obviously at ease. "Yes," he drew out, staring the bulkier mech down. "The Combaticons. I assume there's a reason for all of this." He waved a hand casually, a gesture that could have meant Onslaught's presence but served to draw attention to the small heap of things discarded in the far corner. Onslaught flicked a look at the expensive trinkets - everything Swindle had labored to gift the picky Seeker, untouched and thrown aside - and looked back to Starscream. The other Decepticon was regarding him with the steady optics of someone growing bored. "Do explain, Combaticon."

Surely Starscream knew his name? 'Combaticon' had become synonymous with 'prisoner', however, so Onslaught could be fairly certain the omission was deliberate. This was not going well, and time kept rushing by.

Onslaught straightened his shoulders and dove in with no pretense of pride. "Sir, we need your help. I'm here to ask you to intervene with Lord Megatron on our behalf." The Air Commander was terrifyingly smart. Spelling out why they needed help would be offensive. Explaining what they could bring to the Decepticon cause would only insult his intelligence. Onslaught didn't know if that would be more or less offensive than flat-out asking an officer to help them when said officer knew every reason why _not_ to help. "We would be exceedingly grateful, sir, for even the smallest favor. All we need is an opportunity!" He couldn't tell what the jet was thinking behind those bored optics.

He strained to keep his voice level, to stay at attention. He had very little dignity left, but he would salvage what he could. "An opening, sir. A chance. We're not asking you to directly ask for our pardon," although if that happened, Onslaught would dedicate an entire day to singing the jet's praises, "but you could speak with him. You could…say something to Lord Megatron."

Starscream interrupted. "Say what, exactly?"

Onslaught brought his hands forward, spreading them expressively. The jet had a cleverness with Megatron that no one else had ever been able to duplicate without a fusion blast through the lasercore. "Whatever you think best, sir. Anything would be welcome. Lord Megatron," he hesitated, because it was true for the jet and increasingly unlikely to ever be true for any of the Combaticons, "listens to you."

The time continued counting up. Kickback was going to _ream_ him, but Onslaught didn't dare prod the jet. Starscream leaned forward slowly, resting his chin on one fist as he studied the Combaticon leader. The silence wasn't outright rejection. He held onto that like it could be comfort. That dripped away the longer the silence lasted.

Finally, _finally_, the Air Commander dipped his chin against his fist. It was tiny. It could signify anything. Onslaught's spark quivered in a whiplash of hope.

"He might," Starscream admitted, and his optics were no longer bored. They held a dangerous, lazy kind of interest. The kind of interest that could help or hinder, but at least it was interest! "Or he might decide that I'm trying to plot his downfall with you once more. I fail to see why I should risk myself for your team's sake. What could you possibly offer me?" His optics flicked sidelong, dismissing Swindle's pile of gifts. "I can buy my own junk, you know."

The bargaining phase. Swindle always said it was the least difficult phase of a trade because wrangling over the cost indicated both parties were equally involved in the deal. Onslaught didn't think that to be true, not when he had so little to bargain with. "What do you want of us?" he asked, hands still spread. Open body language, Swindle explained because he spoke physical interaction like a professional, offers anything and everything. _'Tell me the price, and we'll pay it,_' Onslaught offered, and he could only pray to Primus that Starscream would condescend to name a price they could actually pay.

Now amused, Starscream considered the open offer. With the regal bearing of a prince, he swept a look over the Combaticon, head to foot. Internal cables jerked to tautness, although on the outside Onslaught struggled not to show it. That was the same look Bombshell had when contemplating how to best cut the combiner team off at the knees and make them feel every demeaning moment of it. He shouldn't be surprised; this was the jet that the Combaticons had taken turns grinding into the rock of that asteroid during their brief exile. Starscream had apparently been content to let their permanent probation punish them for that mistake, but Onslaught had just cast his entire team at the Air Commander's feet.

His commlink opened with no warning, and if he hadn't been standing so tense already, Shrapnel voice over the internal array would have made him startle. _*"Onslaught. Report!"*_

Whatever the Seeker wanted as vengeance couldn't be worse than what Kickback would do to him when Onslaught had to return. The Combaticon leader dropped his gaze to the floor submissively, keeping his hands open and vulnerable: _'Do with us as you will.'_

The words were a thread of sound, barely audible in the office. "Sir, help us." Even quieter yet. "Please."

Starscream smiled, wide and gloating. "I could do something." A delicate shrug, and shame and fear curdled Onslaught's tanks in equal measure. "I suppose." '_If it's worth my while_,' the lazily triumphant optics over that smile added.

A small motion from the hand curled under Starscream's chin, the slightest hint of a crooked finger, summoned him. Onslaught pushed aside the counting numbers and Shrapnel's audible anger. He walked around the desk and knelt by Starscream's side without needing to wait for an order. The Air Commander looked down at him, optics sharp and glorious in triumph, and Onslaught's core felt cold when the Seeker's free hand reached out to stroke gently down the side of his helm.

Oh, Onslaught already regretted this.


	19. Stage Hands: Swindle

**Title: **Backstage: Stage Hands

**Warnings: **Powerplay? Buncha helpless Decepticons? Reprogramming.

**Rating: ** PG-13

**Continuity: **G1

**Characters: **Combaticons, Decepticons

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt):** _ R.E.M. – "Losing My Religion_"

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><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

* * *

><p>He'd been patient. Onslaught had a plan, Onslaught <em>always<em> had a plan, and Swindle had waited for it to go into motion.

He'd waited. And waited.

It had become clear that Onslaught was waiting for something, too. For what? Megatron to have a fit of mercy? Soundwave to take up English pentameter poetry in his spare time? Motormaster to declare undying love for Optimus Prime?

Actually, that last one had already happened. The Constructicons tackled him on the spot. The rest of the Decepticons pretended nothing had just happened. Nothing. _At all._ Wishful thinking, but they were fans of that when it came to the Stunticons. Hook spent four days searching for the crossed wires, combing through the Motormaster's head with a pair of toothpicks.

As far as criteria went, Swindle didn't have faith that the other two would be so easily met. Stunticons did crazy things every day. Soundwave would have to lose it to follow suit. But Megatron…yeah, that wasn't going to happen.

Onslaught needed an opportunity. He needed an opening, and his hands were tied in this situation. There were no angles of attack for prisoners; just the bars of their cage, confining them. The only one of the Combaticons with any degree of freedom was Swindle. Not much, because the Insecticons had them all on such short leashes it was hard to stand up straight most days, but he was allowed to work alone sometimes.

The humans got along with him. He could get contacts and items of sufficient stupidity to carry out the Decepticons' giant ploy against the Autobots on Earth, and there was even a weird kind of trade going through the spacebridge back to Cybertron. Oddball stuff from Earth was beginning to become collectors' items back on Cybertron. The Cabbage Patch Kids fad in the ground ranks really had to die a quick death in his opinion, but he still thought Megatron allowed him to sell the things through the space bridge just to get them _out_ of the base.

But that was the kind of freedom Swindle had. He had to open his books to Bombshell whenever told to, but he _had_ books. The other Combaticons had chains and various bits of debilitating control forced on them. They didn't resent him - well, much - but having them locked down was as effective as a collar around his own neck. They were a combiner team now, not just a combat unit. Crippling them crippled him, too. He had to help them to help himself. Kickback had made him seriously regret trying to skim enough off profit to buy Blast Off a set of Earth dictionaries.

Swindle had waited for orders, for even a hint of a plan that used his limited freedom, but Onslaught remained strangely silent. That was a first. Slowly, but surely, Swindle began to lose faith in Onslaught's hypothetical plan. He stood back, not the planner and not the strategist, and watched his team leader in fading hope. He waited for his cue, but it wasn't coming. The gestalt link hummed with constant tension, but there was no direction for the frustrated energy.

Swindle waited, and he…thought.

It was up to him. The one with the slack on his chains.

Onslaught knew tactics. He knew plans. Swindle knew opportunity like a shark knew blood in the water. He skidded through life half a credit ahead of target lock, creating black markets right under the noses of the authorities, and he rarely stopped to plan. Impulse and brilliant flashes of genius guided him where Onslaught's meticulous plans bogged down for lack of information or time. Swindle didn't have a strategist's mind, but he had intelligence. Far too much greed for his own good tempered his smarts, but it was still there, waiting.

The Combaticons combined. Bruticus fell. And Swindle stood among the ruins of his team and saw a direction.

It wasn't an opportunity, not yet, but Swindle _ran_ with it.

If the Autobots weren't so Earth-mad and gullible, he wouldn't have had to be so flamboyant. But, really, selling his own gestaltmates? It was barely physically _possible_. He got continuous flashes of bewilderment, muzzy pain, and fury through the gestalt link as the humans he'd sold them to used the Combaticons' bodies like simple machines. It felt horrible, but he sold the other Combaticons anyway.

It was stupid of him, so stupid, because only Megatron could approve one of the grandiose plans the Decepticons on Earth used to distract the Autobots, and every bargain Swindle struck condemned him that much more. He'd known it, and he'd kept running with it. Onslaught needed this. The other Combaticons might end up dead from this, _he_ might get killed, but someone had to take the risk. He was the only one who had the freedom to even try for it.

If Megatron had valued Bruticus just a tiny bit less, Swindle would have been shot on sight. As outrageous as the lone Combaticon's spontaneous act had been, however, there was no denying that Prime's group of morons had fallen for it hook, line, and sinker. Swindle's character on Earth was that of the overly greedy Decepticon, and selling his team fit in well with that kind of mech. Megatron had decided to use the distraction – and allow Swindle to leave his presence alive. It'd been made very clear that his condition could be temporarily, however, if the Combaticons weren't reassembled.

Swindle had fled Megatron's presence and gladly screwed over all his Earth contacts without a shred of remorse. Meh, they were humans, and this wasn't about business, for once. This was survival and opportunity.

Onslaught and the others had rebooted fine, but Brawl had caused trouble. Of course he had. Rage kept coming through the tenuous gestalt bond, so the bruiser wasn't _dead_, but Swindle cursed up a storm at his mind-absent teammate as he tried to think of a way out of this self-made dead end. The rest of his team had stood before the other Decepticons incomplete, and there had been nothing but wary confusion standing at Swindle's back. They knew he wasn't unreasonably greedy, not greedy enough to sell them, but they didn't dare ask what was really going. Not in front of Megatron. Drawing the Supreme Commander's wrath at that moment would have been most unwise.

If Swindle's impromptu dramatic play hadn't been working so well at distracting the Autobots from the spacebridge opening that day, the other three Combaticons would have left Megatron's presence two mechs down instead of just one. Instead, Swindle got a knee-shaking second chance at surviving the day. The bomb installed into his head hadn't even been all that unexpected, although, frag yes, he'd been shivering with terror when Megatron laid down his ultimatum: restore Bruticus, or die.

He'd left to find Brawl's personality component, and in the back of his mind had glittered the faintest flicker of comprehension.

_Onslaught._

By the time Swindle returned, the glitter had become a hard glow. The Decepticons had obviously filled the other Combaticons in on how badly he'd violated the probationary rules laid on their team while he'd been gone, and Vortex and Blast Off stood far back from him as if sheer gall were catching. The looks they gave him were either admiration for the size of his ball bearings or apprehension for what the Insecticons - and _Megatron_, oh by Primus - were going to do to him. Swindle delivered Brawl's missing component and dropped his knees before the ruler of the Decepticons, cables cramping with utter panic -

- and Onslaught grabbed what he'd been given. What Swindle had given him.

"Lord Megatron, let me punish him!" Onslaught strode forward, anger practically vibrating his frame, and Megatron actually paused. Whether at what had been said or at the foolish choice to interrupt him with those words was questionable. Onslaught went on before the Supreme Commander decided. "He **sold** us," the Combaticon team leader growled, and behind him came an echo from Brawl. Their anger certainly was genuine. Swindle could feel it snapping at the borders of his mind as if Brawl would hit him mentally if he could. "He sold **me**. He sold **my team**. I have the right to discipline him!"

Dead silence.

The other Decepticons seemed to have been shocked out of their humorous moods, suddenly watching the free entertainment with intent optics instead of amused. The other Combaticons, even Brawl, went still as statues. Swindle froze, drawing inward and trying to disappear. _'Not wise, Onslaught,'_ he thought. '_Not a good plan_.' Where was the strategy? This was a blow to their chains, blunt as a brute force, and it would never work. They needed lockpicks, not clubs.

Prisoners did not have rights. That was a basic tenet. It was so obvious it was painful. For Onslaught to demand a _right_…

Shrill laughter broke the moment, and Starscream turned to Megatron. "Oh, let him, please! This ought to be good!"

Optics bright with sadistic hilarity savored Swindle's upturned face as the conmech stared at the Air Commander. Disbelief and alarm mingled there, and Swindle glanced fearfully over his shoulder at his stony-faced team commander. A funny sound, half whimper and half plea, came out of Swindle's mouth. Starscream only laughed harder. It caught on like an oil refinery fire, roaring through the room until the other Decepticons were clapping each other the backs and wheezing.

Even Megatron had a smirk on his face. His gaze pressed heavily on the humiliated combiner team, weighing them, judging them one at a time as laughter filled the room. Giggling Vortex, standing beside his larger shuttle teammate. Blast Off, who had his visor trained distantly on the wall behind Megatron as if it held more interest than the current circumstances. Brawl, standing at Onslaught's shoulder with his fists clenching and unclenching furiously. Swindle, cringing on the floor as if it would swallow him up, trapped between a rock and a hard place: team and Supreme Commander. And finally, Onslaught. Insistent but respectfully not pressing, well aware what he asked for was a monumental change.

Give a prisoner one right, and it set precedent for granting another. Privileges could be granted, but they had to be earned.

Megatron considered. He glared at the Combaticons. His Air Commander snickered.

He could afford to be gracious. "Very well, Onslaught. Discipline him." _Earn it._

Swindle stayed on his knees, feeling curiously numb. Back at the Combaticons' base, there were chains set into the middle of the helipad. He knew that Onslaught would chain his wrists there for the beating, in full view of the sky. In full view of the spying Autobots and observing Decepticons, and there would be no way to hide any of it. There could be no mercy, and no pulled blows. It wasn't as simple as a discipline beating. It had to be an example. _Earn it._

Swindle wasn't just taking one for the team. He was giving them the chance to be a team instead of prisoners. He was paying for the basic rights prisoners didn't get with his body, and it was going to - had to - hurt.

Onslaught had a plan.

_Earn it._

Swindle huddled on the ground, and he waited.


	20. A Deed Without Name

**Title: **A Deed Without Name

**Warning: **"_Double, double toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble_" (mechanical repair) and "_By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes_" (mindgames)

**Rating: ** Pg-13

**Continuity:** _Backstage_ G1

**Characters:** Thundercracker, Thrust, Hook, Bonecrusher, Mixmaster

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): **"_More of Seekers. Like in Backstage. More battlefield interactions. More Air Command squabbles, paranoid power-plays and crazy mind-games, just more of all of them."_ and the 3 Witches' lines from Macbeth, Act 4.

_[* * * * *]__  
><em>_**"Seek to know no more."**_

_**[* * * * *]**_

In the Decepticons, delegation was a sign of weakness. If a mech didn't want the responsibilities that came with a commission, then obviously he didn't want the commission very much. Those who took the duties were just as likely to take the position before too long. On the other wing, Decepticons admired a mech who could delegate duties before they overwhelmed him _and_ successfully keep his position.

Starscream and Megatron were a perfect example of both sides of this balancing act. Megatron had delegated the Decepticon Armada to an Air Commander, ceding to the reality that a grounder couldn't utilize flyers as efficiently as another flyer could. In admitting that fact, however, he'd opened himself up to continual power-grabs from the Air Commander. Starscream's greed for more power was seen as a natural result of Megatron's delegation. Other commanders and generals were no different as the Supreme Commander handed off units and areas to them.

Now, the fact that Megatron kept control over the Decepticons was the part that earned the Decepticons' respect. The Supreme Commander earned that title every time some ambitious underling tried to grab his power. Infighting among the officer hierarchy was a given. Staying on top was the tricky part.

Long story short, officers in the Decepticons actually _worked_.

That being said, it would have been foolish of Starscream to not utilize his available resources. Part of the image projected to the Autobots on Earth was that the Elite were not working nearly as hard as they should be. Contact with the Decepticons on Cybertron? No, of course not! The Elite on Earth were too busy being absolute nutcases to be vicious conquerors! The Earth Decepticons were absorbed in trying to take over Earth, not coordinating a massive deception and offworld campaign!

Therefore, if it appeared that Starscream was busy all the time, eventually even the Earth-mad Autobots were going to wonder what exactly he was so busy doing. Starscream had to seem cowardly, incompetent, and free to screw about as he wished when he wished. This was not an image supported by the Air Commander of the Decepticons, more commonly found processing real-time reports from the frontlines than stabbing Megatron in the back. If the Autobots grew suspicious enough to take a second look at him, somebody over in that den of crazy known as the _Ark_ was going to pick up on the fact that the Decepticons' presence on Earth was nothing more than a distraction.

So Starscream - reluctantly - delegated. It increased his efficiency but also the risk of usurpation. There was nothing worse than handing ambitious subordinates the means to take responsibility and credit away from their superior. Getting a taste for the job and the idea that it was there for the taking brewed dissention among those with great - or, frag, even mediocre - ambition. Ambition was only useful when it wasn't directed at one's own rank.

After the Bruticus episode, Starscream revised his delegation policies. No one would ever say he was generous, but he didn't seem quite so reluctant to hand down duties. He'd made his point well: nobody, but nobody, in the Decepticon Elite could fill his position.

Not, at least, without fatal consequences. Skywarp had tried, and look what had happened there! Starscream had returned, and Skywarp had survived, but it hadn't been easy on anyone involved. Thrust had all but panicked, fearing a similar fate when the situation on Pentayear had temporarily promoted him.

Thundercracker understood this. He understood the situation on Earth. He understood Starscream's reluctance and then his confidence post-Bruticus. He even understood why the Air Commander would find it easier to delegate to Skywarp and Thrust, now that both subordinates were well and truly cowed. Really, using the two ex-Air Commanders made sense. Skywarp and Thrust had already taken on the burden of command duties. It was simpler for Starscream to hand off responsibility to them since they already had experience in how to fulfill those responsibilities - and also in how Starscream's displeasure in trying to steal those responsibilities away could send their lives straight to the smelting pits.

He knew why Skywarp had been promoted over him. Thundercracker had his doubts about Megatron's Cause, quiet as he was on the subject, and he knew that counted against him. He was not an ostentatious mech, prone to throwing his weight about and generally being high-maintenance as well as high-energy. Higher rank went to the mechs bossy enough to use it, usually. Thundercracker was 'the quiet one' of his wing, or 'the level-headed one,' not the one everyone's optics automatically followed.

The fact was that Thundercracker just didn't want to be Air Commander. The position had a large target painted on it. He'd rather be the overlooked one. The one everyone's optics shot to was also the one most likely to be shot.

Thundercracker had power. He ranked Third in the Armada, which was no position to scoff at. He had pride of place in the Armada and in the Air Commander's own wing. When out from under the hyperactive and strident-voiced shadows of his wingmates, he projected an undeniable presence. He'd just rather rest on his laurels than stand out and die for them. Where the other officers in the Elite had ambition, Thundercracker had patience. Skywarp had raw ability; Thundercracker had well-honed skill. Thrust had the luck to be in the right place at the right time, and the sheer audacity to push that luck; Thundercracker's plans were so carefully laid they never relied on luck at all.

Thundercracker understood it all, from Starscream's caution to Skywarp's submission to Thrust's boldness. That did not mean he liked it.

Skywarp was fine. He had been Skywarp's wingmate for millions of years. They got along as well as any Decepticons did. There was a solid system of checks and balances between them, companionship and politics leveling into a stable working relationship.

Thrust, however, was not fine. Not fine at all. The ranks on Cybertron had been thrown into chaos by his sudden, if misleading and very temporary, promotion to Air Commander. The fact that he _hadn't_ challenged Starscream's control had earned some contempt from those who saw him as weak, but most of the Armada looked at Thrust as unaccountably wise for knowing his limits. They also looked at him now with a new thoughtfulness. A flyer who was strong and reckless on the battlefield but minded the rules off it could be very dangerous…and promotion material.

The problem being that there were no open positions to promote him into, unless there was a sudden vacancy among the higher ranks.

This situation was not okay in any way, shape, or form, and Thundercracker did not _like_ Thrust. He didn't like Thrust's ambition or careful assumption of more of the Air Commander's duties. Never too many, and the Conehead never took more than Starscream doled out, but there was power-greed beneath the justified fear of Starscream's wrath. Thundercracker could see if in the way the obnoxious flyer was always willing to accept another duty, help out an extra bit, was there whenever needed. Thundercracker saw it, and he _did not like it._

He especially did not like the way Thrust stood beside Starscream on the command deck, wings angled toward the Air Commander in blatant body language that grew more possessive by the day. The mech always kept a properly respectful distance between them, never nonchalantly brushing up against Starscream's shoulder or wing the way Skywarp sometimes did, but there were times when one of the Conehead's legs turned. The attached wing would invade personal space. Not a lot, of course. Not enough to draw Starscream's attention. Not enough that Thundercracker could call him out on it.

Just an angle of a leg, a flick of a wing, and anyone who happened to glance at Air Commander and adjunct helper at that moment would see Thrust practically declaring, _"Mine."_

Oh, Thundercracker did not like that one bit.

He liked it even less when he logged into the bridge shift to find that someone had been browsing his personnel files. There were only two other mechs above his office in the Armada, and Thundercracker had long ago seeded relevant files in the system with rank-tags set to alert him upon opening by lower ranked passcodes. The log from this set of tags registered a specific ID code. Did Thrust think he was stupid? Had the Conehead that low an estimation of his intelligence? Thundercracker hadn't gotten to be in the Air Commander's wing by being an idiot. 'The quiet one' was usually seen as the weak link, as well.

He flicked a glare in the direction of the two flyers murmuring together over by Starscream's station. Thrust ever-so-casually met that glare with a blank look. _"Mine,"_ radiated from the red-and-black flyer's wings. Apparently, whatever he'd seen in Thundercracker's files had infused him with a sense of confidence.

Thundercracker knew what he'd seen. The files were unexpectedly mild for such a high-ranked officer: no execution of rebellious subordinate officers, no attempts on Starscream's position, no scandals following his rise through the ranks. Usually there were at least rumors of assassinations when officers were promoted to replace the recently dead or disgraced, but Thundercracker had slid through the gaps of Decepticon military procedure to settle, strangely graceful, into his current rank. Thundercracker was a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield, but the mech described in those files hardly seemed threatening when compared to Skywarp's trail of 'disappeared' superior officers or, well, Starscream.

Thrust wanted a promotion. He wanted a fighting chance to be Starscream's legitimate successor, and that meant being in close proximity. Skywarp's rank barely edged out Thundercracker's, and then only by a technicality: Skywarp had been transferred into the wing first. The wingmate positions were nearly equal, and had Thundercracker wanted to, he could have fought Skywarp for the Air Commander position before Megatron stepped in. He hadn't wanted to, however.

Thrust wanted into Starscream's wing. The only way to get that promotion was through one of the mechs already filling it, and Thundercracker's lack of ambition plus the history recorded in the personnel files made it seem obvious who the target should be.

He wanted Thundercracker's spot.

The red-and-black flyer arrogantly turned his back, pointedly snubbing the blue Seeker. Thundercracker watched him a moment more, optics slowly narrowing as thick rage seeped through his thoughts like poison. Starscream absently shifted his weight, responding to the wing encroaching on his personal space bubble instead of lashing out at it, and Thundercracker's lips flattened into a grim line. Thrust thought him weak. A challenge, some pressure to surrender or back off, and what? Did he think Thundercracker would fold, just like that?

Thrust wanted _his_ wing. The only way that would happen was over the Seeker's dead, empty spark chamber.

Which was perhaps the point, but knowing Thrust, the mech wasn't expecting that much of a fuss. Thundercracker had never been the sort to engage in futile shouting matches or brawls that might get him written up on report. Fistfights, while satisfying, ended in a cell or the wrong end of a gun more often than not. Thundercracker tended to back down rather than escalate personal conflicts, favoring calm reason over losing his temper. Some mechs could see how his quiet nature circumvented loud, public confrontations in favor of private settlements that ultimately accomplished more. Others, like Thrust, only saw the floorshow instead of more important backstage maneuvering.

Thrust had some brains, but more brawn. Thundercracker had the brawn, too, but, as Starscream frequently groused, mechs tended to forget how to be Decepticons instead of merely war machines. Power plays had more to them than whaling on a problem until it died.

Thundercracker's hands moved steadily across the console, unhurried and double-checking. Anger simmered under his calm, but he knew hot things cooled quickly. Bubbles burst and were gone, brief moments of blind fury that wouldn't sustain him. Cold, frigid rage was twice as dangerous as any blazing display of anger, and it lasted longer. Everyone knew Starscream was annoying when he shrieked unholy fury, but he scared the wings off smart mechs when he seethed quietly. Just because Thundercracker didn't rant and swear didn't mean he wasn't _dangerous_. Subtlety could be just as lethal.

Soundwave sent an acknowledgement ping back when the rearranged bridge shift went through. The scheduling change had received a co-sign from the repairbay, so there were no questions and not a second look. Hook had accepted Thundercracker's request for an urgent maintenance appointment and wanted him to show up ASAP, and everyone knew repairbay waited for no mech, current duties be slagged. Thundercracker would be reassigned to patrol later to make up for the missed shift.

He logged a request for a specific patrol partner and attached an explanation note to make sure the request went through. The note ensured that Blast Off's parole officer would take an interest as well. The fall-out from that would be off the record and rather petty, but could just as easily be chalked up to a grumpy mech wanting a quiet shift. Getting stuck patrolling with a blabbermouth for a patrol partner would push anyone's last nerve after an extensive maintenance check.

Without a word, Thundercracker logged off his console and left the command deck. Thrust's optics followed him, and he could _feel_ the Conehead gloating. The fragger.

Thundercracker chose to take the scenic route down to repairbay. It wasn't a leisurely stroll, but he did take the time for a meandering tour of the ship. He visited the main corridors leading from command deck to the lowest levels of the ship. Thundercracker casually paused in each one, looking straight into the cameras, even the hidden ones. His grim expression never changed as he code-locked all six of the main hatches and several of the minor cross-corridor hatches. It wouldn't bother most of the Decepticons, who tended to use the drop-shafts around the circumference of the ship to fly to whatever level they needed to get to. It'd be a minor inconvenience for _most_ of those in the ship. The ones it bothered would be too low-ranked to unlock the code.

What a shame.

A strange smile flitted about the blue Seeker's lips as the last hatch bleeped and sealed. He headed for the repairbay at a brisk walk, humming an old military tune to himself in time with his steps.

Hook met him at the repairbay door. As in, the Constructicon opened the door as he walked up, then barred the way by standing in the doorway looking at him. Critical optics raked him over, searching for damage that wasn't there. Thundercracker stood there as if it were the most normal thing in the world to be standing out in the hall. Being studied like an unexpected impurity caught in a filter trap? Ho hum, just another day for Thundercracker.

"Urgent maintenance," Hook said, voice judging.

Skywarp did innocent. He did it in a way that was most definitely not. Thundercracker just seemed a bit wary, as if suspicious of anyone who would question his story. What was Hook implying? What was his angle? "Yes."

"I see." And the Constructicon's voice made it clear he certainly did. "You may as well come in, then." He stood aside, letting the Seeker pass, and muttered under his breath, "Let's get this over with."

Thundercracker nodded a greeting to Bonecrusher and Mixmaster, who stared back at him from the other side of the central surgery table with flat, almost hostile gazes. Mixmaster started to set up the hoses for a fluid flush, and Bonecrusher began cranking the table up. Behind Thundercracker, the door slid shut.

"Oh, don't rush on my account," the Seeker said demurely. The odd smile was back, flirting with pale lips. "I'm in no hurry."

The room stumbled. Bonecrusher froze, suddenly unable to look away from the levers under the table. Mixmaster fumbled an injector for half a second, spilling a splash of brilliantly neon coolant. Hook's vents hitched audibly. Thundercracker walked to the table and pivoted, a long, deliberate move that started at his turbines, twisted elegantly through his hips, and ended with the slow turn of his helm. He turned just far enough, just until he could meet Hook's visor-covered optics, and the smile widened into something usually kept caged.

The Constructicon surgeon's mouth moved through an unspoken thought as he met the blue Seeker's red gaze. What finally came out sounded like's Hook's regular caustic arrogance, but the mech took a step back as he spoke. "It's like that, is it?" One hand went back, and the door lock engaged. An additional override clicked into place, and a manual deadbolt.

Confusion, puzzlement, wounded innocence; now what on Cybertron could Hook be talking about? Why did Hook have to be so mean to poor widdle Seekers? "Like what?" Thundercracker said softly, cocking his head to the side, and Bonecrusher and Hook exhaled as one. The injector in Mixmaster's hands snapped, breaking in two under a too-tight grip, and the moment passed.

"Get on the table," Hook ordered abruptly.

Ever courteous but always superior, Thundercracker swept a mocking bow and obeyed. He hefted himself onto the table and swung his feet up before laying back carefully, twitching his wings to settle them against the cooler metal.

Hook's gestaltmates shook themselves and returned to prepping the table, but now they moved quickly. Their optics strayed from tools and materials often, sizing up the flyer stretching his legs out on the table. Mixmaster stopped and openly stared at the blue armor for a second. He reached between two plates in the flyer's side and pinched a tube as if calculating volume, and Hook nodded from the other side of the table. The chemist strode off just as suddenly as he'd stopped working.

Hook didn't stop working, but part of his attention was dedicated to watching Thundercracker's wings slide against the table as the flyer trying to get comfortable. The surgeon gave Bonecrusher a brief glance, and the larger Constructicon grunted as if responding to an order. The table crank spooled down, bringing Thundercracker slightly lower, and Bonecrusher adjusted the head of the table to raise the Seeker into a reclining position. The two Constructicons exchanged nods, and Hook stopped laying out the delicate tools of his trade in order to impatiently push and pull at the flyer's limbs until they were arranged on the table to suit the surgeon's specifications. Another grunt from Bonecrusher, this time questioning, and Hook watched until the wings stopped their restless shifting before nodding and returning to his side tray.

Bonecrusher straightened from locking the table levers and grabbed one blue forearm. He rotated it, watching how the arm's complex weave of gears, tensile cables, and struts moved around the ball joint of the elbow itself. The machinery was hidden by Thundercracker's heavy armor for the most part, but what Bonecrusher couldn't see he could hear and scan for. He listened, scowling, and pulled on the forearm as he stepped back, manipulating the Seeker's whole arm through its range of motion. The grunt this time was disapproving, and Bonecrusher went for a leg next.

By the time Mixmaster returned with an armful of mysteriously labeled tanks, Bonecrusher had Thundercracker's left leg extended straight up into the air. The chemist watched his gestaltmate run a hand down a black thigh to rap a knuckle against Thundercracker's hip. Hook looked at the indicated area thoughtfully, but Mixmaster shouldered Bonecrusher aside to proffer one of the tanks.

Both Constructicons studied it, interested, as Mixmaster held it under their optics. Whatever was in it provoked scorn from Hook and an unconvinced expression from Bonecrusher. They waved him away, but he immediately produced another tank that got a better response when he earnestly handed off to Hook. The three Constructicons argued about it, pointing fingers at each other and at the label on the tank. Mixmaster threw up his hands and took back his tank, stubbornly plunking it down beside the others on the table's flush pump mechanism. Hook shook his head but went back to organizing his tools on the side tray. Bonecrusher snorted but seemed to accept the chemist's decision.

Whatever it was about. Nobody else could know, since the Constructicons hadn't said a word.

Thundercracker lay on the table and watched the near-silent happenings around him with dimmed optics. He complacently let Bonecrusher test his joints, one by one, contorting him into ridiculous positions as even knuckle joints and back strut joins were bent to their limits. The disapproving grunts continued to rain down upon him, growing more annoyed as each tested joint failed to pass Bonecrusher's high standards. Hook looked positively thunderous, slamming things down on the tray so hard it rattled. He stalked off, snaring Mixmaster by one shoulder as he went. Now, from out of Thundercracker's sight, the chemist occasionally broke into maniacal cackles for no apparent reason.

It was alarming, not knowing what was going on or what would happen. It was unnerving, being the center of attention but completely ignored. It was creepy, seeing and hearing them planning around him but not being able to predict what they would do to him. It was humiliating, being prodded and poked like a doll instead of a mech. It was horrible, being touched everywhere by hands more acquisitive than impartial.

The Constructicons were in the midst of a full-fledged gestalt commune, shutting out unimportant habits like actually speaking aloud or acknowledging their patient. No Decepticon could like it. Thundercracker could barely tolerate it.

Why did he, then?

Because everyone knew that Hook was a perfectionist. That was hardly secret. Everyone even knew that Bonecrusher destroyed, purging the imperfect. It was common knowledge that Mixmaster always experimented, continually trying to create more and better and richer. The other Constructicons had their own quirks, but the three mechs bending their glitches on Thundercracker today were the least approachable yet most vulnerable for it.

So far as Thundercracker knew, nobody else had connected each of the Constructicon's various neuroses and seen the larger picture. The small glitches were similar, but on a larger scale, they added up to one compulsion. The Constructicons, one and all, sought purity. They were united in an endless _need_ to create perfection.

Shockwave had been utterly scandalized when Megatron made the decision to risk them on the frontline, even if the frontline on Earth was more of a joke than a battle. They were an essential part of the Earth distraction and the core of the Decepticon Engineering Division back on Cybertron. And, yes, assisting the war effort was what the Decepticons called upon them for. There was no shame in that.

However proud they were of their abilities and contribution to the Decepticons, though, there was no way to glorify making weapons of war and repairing warriors. Instead of creating to the standards of Crystal City and above, the Constructicons were reduced to fix-its and diversionary equipment.

The spark-deep desire to perfect grated on the entire combiner team like a geas, but Decepticons didn't go to the repairbay for perfection. They didn't even go voluntarily. Going to the repairbay meant injuries, and even the rumor of injury meant weakness. Decepticons chafed to leave as soon as they entered; they never to stayed long enough for perfection. They went to get the dents hammered out and make the pain stop, and they escaped before the Constructicons' restive hands started finding things to _change_.

Most mechs didn't want to be _changed_. The idea of voluntarily submitting to Bonecrusher's ire, Hook's ruthlessness, and Mixmaster's experimental substances would be enough to send brave mechs running.

Perhaps other Decepticons knew about the compulsion. Perhaps it was just that no other Decepticon could stand to take advantage of it. The Constructicons were anything but gentle when doing repairs. To lay down, let Hook open him up, let Bonecrusher at his internals, let Mixmaster fill him with dubious substances…

It frightened Thundercracker, as it should, but his systems never wavered. His optics remained dimmed even as Hook and Mixmaster came back into sight carrying a tub of steaming liquid between them. His vents cycled easily, in and out, fans controlled and temperature even. Inanimate objects could be beautiful, but beauty was not perfection. Only the living could be perfect. Perfection could only be accomplished by cooperation, unless the Constructicons were willing to taint the final work with terror. The blue Seeker knew about the condemned mechs who ended up under the Constructicons' hands on tables much like the one he currently lay on, but those poor beings ended in destruction, not evolution.

Perfection in the living was fleeting but fully satisfying. Living perfection endlessly changed, taking a new form under new circumstances, and Thundercracker alone indulged the Constructicons' crawling hunger for it. He knew to fear their pitiless quest, but he held it over their collective heads at the same time. He came to them, guilelessly throwing out an offhand comment that sent them scrambling for the opportunity, and he knew what it did to them to have a willing subject. Cooperation, the calm sigh of systems accepting changes as they were made and live feedback in the form of thoughtful, intelligent answers to their questions. Oh, that. Yes, that. It surged heady, pseudo-physical lust through their gestalt-linked sparks, and Thundercracker _knew it did_.

They were professionals; their fingers didn't so much as quiver, and their faces were unreadable masks. Yet he watched them, knowing, and their ungentle hands touched him as if he were made of glass. The _need_ consumed them, and it made the Seeker so very, very precious. He fed their addiction, and it was both cringingly repulsive and overwhelmingly attractive.

They hated him for that.

As Bonecrusher picked up Thundercracker's arm and lowered it into the tub, beginning a ritual that would leave every joint moving quiet as a ghost and every tensile cable as pliable as a new protoform's, they loved him for it even more. They loved him for what he would become.

Mixmaster screwed the flushing lines in and began draining used coolant and lubricant. One of the tanks he'd brought over was tapped and hooked up, pumping fluid an alarming shade of fuchsia in. He knocked on Thundercracker's cockpit until the canopy popped, revealing latches for opening the Seeker's torso armor. Mixmaster opened the lower set and opened him up enough to get at the main line between tank and fuel pump. He drew an energon sample and started running tests on it.

Meanwhile, Hook slid a magnifying lens into one side of his visor and used a wrench the size of his finger to open up the side of the Seeker's black helm, exposing cerebral circuitry and the vent ducts. "Full power, one klik."

Thundercracker obligingly flipped his helm vents to full bore under the surgeon's sharp optics. Bonecrusher glanced over and snorted, seeming to hear something he didn't like. Hook's visor narrowed, studying the vent fins. The Seeker felt him pinch two of them, correcting their angle. Mixmaster reached over and held a hand in front of the air flow, a vacant look crossing his face as he measured pressure and filtration. Thundercracker's ventilation system didn't have any red lights up and his filters were adequate, but apparently that wasn't good enough for the Constructicons. Mixmaster shrugged at Hook, who nodded to Bonecrusher, who left Thundercracker's arm soaking in order to fetch a swab the size of pin. He had to uncap a finger and extend a pair of tweezers just to hold it.

The Seeker's optics lit and eyed it sidelong when it was passed to Hook, and the Constructicons tensed as one. Hook was not accustomed to caring about the opinions of his patients. He visibly reined in impatience. The door was always an option. The Constructicons were many, but Seekers were notoriously fast. They could _make_ him stay, but a struggle was the last thing any of them wanted, right here or now. Hook's mouth thinned, but he waited.

Thundercracker blinked up at him, looked at the swab that was destined to be stuck uncomfortably near his personality matrix, and smiled, a here-and-gone expression quick as lightning. His optics dimmed back to dark crimson. The three repair mechs relaxed as much as they ever did and went back to work. Hook leaned in and began dabbing clean the tiny mechanisms controlling the vent fins.

And so it went: every maintenance hatch opened, every plating underside wiped clean, and every gear stripped of grime and old lubricant, then re-oiled to roll smooth and quiet. Hook linked in and checked his systems from the inside, tweaking program specs and correcting the miniscule changes that self-repair had made up to try and deal with Earth's atmosphere on its own. Bonecrusher realigned armor, forcing out the everyday dents and wavering edges. Hook went under the plating, straightening the network of cables and tubing winding around the struts to maximize efficiency and minimize vulnerability. He rewired Thundercracker's hands where the knuckle joints had worn away at the last set of sensor transmitters, trying a new configuration and calibrating them precisely.

Thundercracker merely laid there, deep voice bored as he answered the occasion words actually spoken aloud. "No," he said when Mixmaster asked about the weird fuchsia liquid replacing his coolant. "I don't taste anything. Should I?"

The chemist didn't reply. Hook ran a diagnostic on the Seeker's chemical receptors, paused, and opened Thundercracker's mouth to look inside. Mixmaster looked at the Seeker inquiringly, and Thundercracker shook his head. A violently yellow fluid got injected into the pump line. Thundercracker waited, then shook his head again. Hook frowned and rearranged his grip on the flyer's chin, keeping him still. His other hand took a blunt hook off his tool tray, and he stuck it into the Seeker's mouth to poke around.

Thundercracker jolted, startled, when it scraped over the inside of his dental molds. All three Constructicons looked annoyed. The scraping continued. Hook ducked his head and peered at the roof of Thundercracker's mouth as he prodded it with the tool. Annoyance deepened to puzzlement and irritated concern.

"What?" the Seeker asked, muffled slightly by Hook's hand.

Hook gave him an impatient jostle with the hand on his chin, reprimanding him for talking, but deigned to answer. "Your chemical receptors are not even active. This is an unusual corrosion location." Bonecrusher sorted through a parts box, scowling as he searched for a matching set of receptors for the five pairs he'd already set onto the table. "Replacement is necessary."

That would explain why he wasn't tasting either hook or Hook. A nicer medic probably would have just asked when he last remembered tasting anything, but Hook was a surgical engineer, not a trained medic. The Constructicon just checked the defunct receptors' logs.

Thundercracker kept his mouth open and tried to ignore the awkward feeling of two mechs operating on the inside of his mouth. It got easier when Hook finagled the last of the interior connectors loose and opened up his facial plating. That felt sickening as Thundercracker's cheeks peeled back to his helm, the insanely complicated emotional response system underneath whirring away as Bonecrusher began cleaning the miniscule soft metal plates, but it let the Seeker's jaw yawn open to rest on his neck. That gave them both more room to work. It also made Thundercracker feel less like the two repair mechs were trying to stuff their hands down his throat.

Mixmaster collected the discarded receptors and dropped them into sterile containers for later testing. Thundercracker was betting the corrosion came from constant exposure to Earth's atmosphere, but the chemist would find out for certain. The blue Seeker felt a little smug that the rest of the Decepticons would likely be subjected to this same procedure soon. Bonecrusher probably wouldn't fine-tune their facial systems while he was at it, either. Ha. Sometimes being the Constructicons' glorified Barbie doll had its perks.

The smugness lasted right until the first new receptor came online.

"**Auugh!**"

"What?"

"That is **revolting**, get it out!" Thundercracker thrashed, batting away Hook and Bonecrusher and rolling off the table in a move so quick they were left holding empty air. The flush pump's injectors pulled loose, spraying fluids everywhere, but the Seeker hardly noticed. He was too busy coughing out the fumes he could only taste now. The online receptor sent urgent purge orders to his tanks as analysis came back reading positive for gaseous toxins. He'd complied with Mixmaster's instructions to bypass his filtration system's warnings about the solid-grit impurities, but this was awful!

"Drain it!" He gagged, fighting Hook's link-in. His hands fumbled, trying to pull the cable out. A retching convulsion threw off his aim, and Hook's repair override continued to shut down the purge order every time it came up. "Stop it! Stop!"

"You are being absurd," Hook retorted, stepping around the table to prevent the Seeker from pulling out the interface cable connecting them. Mixmaster scrambled to shut off the spurting pump, but Bonecrusher went around the other side. The two Constructicons advanced slowly, backing the Seeker up against the wall.

Thundercracker was quite a sight, slurred voice gargling from the middle of exposed facial structure and freely swinging jaw. "I don't give a frag what you think - get it **glargh** out of me!" His wings brushed the wall, and even through the wildness of emergency poison protocols, a cornered warrior emerged. Red optics narrowed over clicking gears and tiny pulleys, and black hands clenched to fists. The two Constructicons boxing him in got ready to block any escape attempts.

Scrapper's voice cracked over them like an electro-whip. "That is **enough**, all of you. Calm down." The repairbay intercom blared feedback for a moment, then settled into the Constructicon team leader's sternest tone. "Thundercracker, get back on the table. Mixmaster will drain your tanks." The chemist slammed containers around, mutinous and angry, and a touch of anger came through in Scrapper's voice. "I **said**, he will drain them immediately." Thundercracker knew the biting tone was mostly show for his sake, but it was the closest thing to an apology he was going to get. "Bonecrusher will assist. They will rinse your tanks with cleanser and refill your reservoirs." The intercom clicked back off.

The Seeker didn't stand down. "With what?" he snapped, suspicious. "No more pitslag concoctions!" Fumes seared his receptor, and he coughed, fans rattling.

"With standard coolant," Hook promised coolly. "Now, if you would cease your dramatics and let us finish working?"

"It's an internal surface scour. It's supposed to register like that," Mixmaster muttered sullenly when Bonecrusher stood aside, letting Thundercracker venture a few steps toward the table.

"Mixmaster!" both his gestaltmates barked, but it was too late.

Thundercracker darted between Bonecrusher and Hook, catching the interface cable between his medical port and the surgeon and tearing it loose as he ran. He vaulted the table, clearing Mixmaster and tanks in one leap. He slid to a halt in front of the door, one rifle aimed at the locks and the other trained on Mixmaster. This time he had to override the purge order himself, because the moment he dropped his guard one or all of the repair mechs were going to tackle him.

"You **knew** this would happen!" he accused, jaw swinging.

Bonecrusher and Hook glared at Mixmaster. Mixmaster, in turn, glared at Thundercracker like this was all the Seeker's fault. "Of course I did! Scours are not meant for regular use. A flush with my new compound will increase cooling system efficiency by 5%, and that kind of result doesn't come via energon goodie flavor!"

Tanks gurgled nauseously within the Seeker's torso, but the other two Constructicons were giving Mixmaster mildly surprised looks. Apparently 5% was a good figure indeed. Meaning that it was probably good for him, but scrap iron and _metal_ was that hard to process! Everything from intake protocols up were trying to get the stuff out, and Thundercracker groaned and swayed. He hated fighting his own protocols. Whatever witch's brew Mixmaster had poured in his tanks, his chemical receptor was beating Thundercracker over the head with its toxicity levels.

Despite all of that, his arm snapped around to aim his rifle at Bonecrusher when the big Constructicon tried edging closer.

"For Primus' sake!" Mixmaster threw up his hands and stormed across the repairbay, disappearing through the door to his lab. Thundercracker jumped and nearly threw up tainted fluids before he got a purge override in place. Bonecrusher looked disgusted and Hook seemed exasperated with everyone, but they both watched the Seeker closely. "Fine!" Mixmaster continued ranting from inside. "You want goodies? I'll fragging well give you some rusted goodies!" He re-emerged carrying a package of - energon goodies. "Here. Take the blasted things if it'll make you happy."

Thundercracker looked down at the open packet being waved at him. He looked at Mixmaster's completely unrepentant and thoroughly grouchy expression. The mech obviously didn't have a clue that what he'd done was beyond rude or was, in fact, wrong in any way. The energon goodies were just the chemist humoring a bad patient.

The other two Constructicons quite clearly had no idea what to say to fix this situation. They seemed somewhat resigned to the Seeker busting down the door and taking off for parts unknown.

He started laughing. He couldn't help it. His legs gave out, and he slid slowly down the door, hiccupping as his intakes burped air trying to purge the fumes. They _hurt_, but by the Unmaker, he was going to have so much to hold over the Constructicons after this, it was ridiculous.

Loose jaw shaking the force of his laughter, Thundercracker reached out and helped himself to a handful of the goodies. Might as well not waste them, because rust and slag if he wouldn't need something to chase this awful taste away. He held the gooey treats in one fist and clambered back to his feet. "Alright. Al**ugh**right. Just get this over w-with," he had to pause to unlock his throat, which had automatically seized up his intakes as a gust of corrosive fumes came up. When he could swallow again, he finished, "Get it over with as fast as possible."

Bonecrusher approached slowly, looking unconvinced. Also a bit weirded out by the laughter. Laughter was not Thundercracker's usual _modus operandi_ when threatened, insulted, or bodily modified. "Really?" Red optics gave the Constructicon a truly unimpressed look. "Really," Bonecrusher concluded and pulled him back toward the table. Hook silently met them halfway and helped the Seeker get back on it.

"How much of a hurry are you not in?" Bonecrusher asked gruffly as he ran a hand over the small scrapes the wall had left on blue wings.

The three mechs followed the scuff marks across Thundercracker's plating, and the urge to perfect lit all of their optics brilliantly. The Seeker could see their need to strip the old paint nanites and polish the metal clean before reapplying a new coat. It thrummed urgently in Bonecrusher's electromagnetic field as the Constructicon's systems primed, ready to start, wanting to start. They _needed_ to correct imperfections more than any of them were willing to admit.

System-sick or not, Thundercracker wasn't letting that opening pass. "Well…"

The artful hesitation really ground their muted desperation in. "What?" Hook demanded, forcefully redirecting his attention back into installing chemical receptors.

"I don't think I should stay off duty too long," the Seeker said, sounding bizarrely coy even with Hook's hands in his mouth. The words were slightly slurred but clear enough. "Thrust has been chasing my thrusters lately, and if I give him half an opening, he'll start taking my slots. Better safe than sorry."

There was a long klik of quiet. The repairbay echoed with clinks and scuffs as Bonecrusher resumed cleaning and Hook brought another receptor online. There was a sloshing sound as Mixmaster began suctioning the horrid, vile yellow-fuchsia scouring liquid from the flyer's lines, and the chemist grumbled something distinctly uncomplimentary as Thundercracker gagged. The gag turned to a surprised _gleep!_ when Mixmaster shook another energon goodie from the packet and pushed Hook's hands aside for a second to pop it directly down the flyer's throat. Hook elbowed him back out of the way and resumed working as the goodie slowly dissolved on top of an intake, melting into a protective bubble preventing more fumes from coming up.

"Yes," Hook finally agreed, painfully neutral.

That one syllable said it all. That one syllable made everything worth it: Hook's hands taking him apart, Bonecrusher's contempt, Mixmaster's wretched experiment. It would have been worth Long Haul's whining, Scrapper's anxiety, or Scrapper recasting his armor. Slag, it would have been worth installing a new set of exhaust nozzles. That one syllable had been the whole point.

Thundercracker didn't relax, but he did meet Hook's gaze with an innocent look. _His_ innocent look, not Skywarp's, so the Seeker only seemed vaguely pleased that Hook understood why he didn't dare leave his station for very long. Poor, put-upon Thundercracker just couldn't take that chance. Otherwise he'd stay and let the Constructicons work on him. Yep, he sure would.

"I wouldn't worry about Thrust," Bonecrusher rumbled, succumbing to that sweet temptation. Compliance was a wonderful, horrible lure, and the Constructicons walked into Thundercracker's baited trap with optics open. "He's due for some maintenance of his own soon."

Thundercracker gave him wide red optics; why, that sounded like a threat! "If you say so," he said, reluctant and doubtful. "I suppose I have time, then."

"Yes, you do," Hook decided for him, impatient with the subtext. He gave the Seeker an almost-glare, and Thundercracker settled back into good-patient mode meekly. The three Constructicons bent back to their work.

Thundercracker lay under their hands and endured. By the time he'd get out of the repairbay, he'd shine from helm to thrusters. Every system would be fine-tuned, as perfect as two joors of nonstop work could make him. If the compressors set on Hook's side tray were anything to go on, there was an engine rebuild in his near future as well. The first sonic boom in the next battle was going to shock both factions with its power. Which would be an excellent side-effect, but the mission objective had already been achieved. Anything from here on out was - his lips twitched around Hook's hands, smirking - bonus energon goodies on top of the ration cube.

A message pinged over the network, unobtrusively appearing in Thundercracker's queue. He opened it idly. Ah, the next deca-cyle's schedule. As predicted, he was pulling a lot of bridge shifts paired with Soundwave. The Communication Officer would never pass up the opportunity to listen to anything that sounded like home. Stuck here on Earth, the Cassetticon master was under assault by jarring foreign languages, alien noise from radio and satellite, and constant biological interference even when there was no active sound. Add to that the backbiting pranks required by Megatron's grand deception, and Soundwave suffered. Sharing the command deck with a Seeker sporting a perfectly-tuned body was the closest thing Soundwave could get to returning to Cybertron for a joor or three.

The blue Seeker moaned gratefully as the taste of toxic fumes finally, _finally _ebbed away. Mixmaster grumbled, but Thundercracker ignored him in favor of pondering his upcoming shifts with Soundwave. Maybe he'd hum some old songs. He was no great singer, but he was one of the few mechs on Earth with a bass-tone vocalizer, and the only one who knew how to use it right. Yes, a few old songs, just hummed or sung low in one of the old dialects from Cybertron, and he wouldn't even have to hint about erasing the evidence. Thundercracker's meandering walk through the base earlier would simply disappear, leaving nothing but Thrust's codes locking the doors in his wake.

Which, by the time Thundercracker got out of the repairbay, would have thoroughly pissed off the entire Stunticon team. They were the only ones who actually enjoyed racing through the main corridors like manic monkeys, but their daily driving adventures would have been interrupted by the fact that Thrust outranked them. It must have been maddening to find out none of their passcodes overrode Thrust's lock-code on the corridor hatchways. Oops. Silly Seeker. Thundercracker would just have to unlock those for the crazy cars later. The newbies would take one look at his gloriously-polished wings and off-hand mention of how Thrust had mentioned something about harassing them earlier, and fall for it without even a question asked.

He'd report for his patrol shift after that. Bombshell would have cerebro-shelled Blast Off into linguistic shut-off for stepping out of line in an earlier mission, and the shuttle wouldn't speak a word if given a choice. Well, he'd apologize for the earlier slight because otherwise his Insecticon parole officer would have him on his knees begging the Seeker's forgiveness, but the words would be stumbling and slow. Blast Off had probably hoped the snapped insult hurled at Thundercracker in the middle of the last mission had been forgotten, but just because the Seeker hadn't lashed out didn't mean that he'd forgiven.

There were better ways to punish prisoners than a beating. Cutting off Blast Off's downloaded Earth-language files was a particularly humiliating one. The mech still didn't know more than basic English, and his vocabulary in other languages was even worse. An impromptu language lesson would put him into Thundercracker's debt quite nicely. Turning a punishment patrol into practice was no effort at all on the Seeker's part, but it was nothing less than a miracle from Primus for the shuttle.

The important part to Thundercracker was that, once one of the Combaticons owed him, they _all_ owed him.

Hmm. Maybe before he went out on patrol he'd take a little detour through the command deck. He could flash his polish at his wingmates. It'd get a second look from Skywarp, at least, although Starscream might only smile that dangerous smile of his. Perhaps Thrust would think Thundercracker was frantic to regain attention and trying to win his wing back by sheer physical looks.

Oh, Thundercracker hoped the stupid mech thought that. He hoped Thrust shined himself up. He really hoped so. He wanted to see that. He wanted to see the jealousy bloom hot and fast over the stupid Conehead's face when he realized Skywarp never even glanced in his direction. He wanted to be there when Thrust paraded himself around Starscream and got cut off at the knees by the Air Commander for wasting his time.

Thundercracker's handsome wings were the least of his attractions. Starscream didn't tolerate pretty faces or nice wings when they weren't backed up by ability. Any smiles thrown at his wingmates were sly acknowledgement of more than mere _looks_. Skywarp occasionally got one for a well-played prank. Thundercracker…no one else knew why the Air Commander smiled at Thundercracker. He was 'the quiet one,' after all. The weak link.

No suspicions would be raised. There wouldn't be a scandal roused or a rumor whispered, much less a note made in his personnel file. Broken bodies and their foolish ambitions were a tenuous connection at best, and there was never proof. And once all three Decepticon combiner teams finished putting Thrust through the wringer, the other Decepticons would be none the wiser that they should be searching for any.

As Bonecrusher had said, Thundercracker didn't have to worry. Not anymore.


	21. Fly Birds

**The Nightbird had repercussions the Autobots never saw.**

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><p><strong>Title: <strong>Fly Birds

**Warning****s****: **'_Enter the Nightbird'_ and episode aftermath from a non-funny angle; torture; unrecognized self-mutilation (as in, he doesn't feel himself doing it).

**Rating:** PG-13 for violence

**Continuity: **_Backstage _G1 - this is actually set between '_Backstage'_ and '_Improv Act'_

**Characters:** Hook, Mixmaster, Long Haul, Scrapper, Astrotrain, Frenzy, Skywarp, Dirge, Thundercracker, Starscream

**Disclaimer: **The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

**Motivation (Prompt): ** _"If you ever leave me..."; "Crushed underfoot"; and "It is better to offer no excuse than a bad one." - George Washington_ + Auction fic

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><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>

**"**There's danger here, so get away; fly birds fly, and do not stay"****

**[* * * * *]**

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><p>As if the Constructicons didn't have enough to do on any given day, the Nightbird fiasco left a repair list the length of Bonecrusher's arm. Not just the anticipated cosmetic nicks and dings from playing dumbafts for the Autobots, either. Combat had gotten real, and only the blasted Autobots' Earth-mad blindness had kept them from seeing the serious side of the fight today.<p>

Thing had seemed serious as usual, but then again, Megatron could pull off the worst cliché evil tyrant overlord lines with a straight face. Appearing serious and actually being so under the surface were two completely different things. The grand act put on by the Decepticons required multiple layers of distraction and hidden action. The reality of conquest was concealed beneath everything they showed the Autobots, and the play-acting plot today had been heavily layered to hide that reality.

The play-act had turned real, however. Take-Over-The-Decepticons Attempt #4 Billion and One by Starscream had somehow taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque. An idle, time-filling plot to steal some human's science project turned on its head when the project caused an actual fight among the high officer cadre. Things had gone from surprising to near-lethal in a matter of hours. The actual plan the theft had been intended to cover had been troop transfer through the space bridge out in the Gobi Desert; that was quietly canceled. The Elite Decepticons warily hunkered down for the storm, instead.

Finding out about Dr. Fujiyama's robot project had presented another opportunity for Autobot-distracting antics, right up until the Constructicons actually got a look at the robot. Then Starscream and Megatron started yelling at each other.

Starscream attempted to take over the Decepticons approximately every other week on Earth. Sometimes every week if there was a lot of back-and-forth between Cybertron and Earth that needed to be covered up. That was normal and laughable.

In reality, the clashes between Air Commander and Supreme Commander of the Decepticons were neither normal nor laughable. Shouted disagreements, yes, that was par for the course. They were capable of rational, level-voiced arguments, but Starscream had never been a quiet mech and Megatron had to bellow to be heard above the noise when the jet really got going. Sparking weaponry and dented metal, however, signaled something far beyond the norm. That signaled a clash of the titans. Lesser mortals beware.

That was the signal the other Decepticons received this time, and it was bad signal to get. The two high officers stalked through the base once they'd inspected the human-made robot, and the smell of discharged energy weapons smoked from their tense frames. They had one yelling match before they even left the repair bay, and the next one brewed the air between them darker with every step.

The three top Decepticon officers on Earth cloistered themselves in the privacy of a briefing room, an out-of-the-way room painstakingly secured by Soundwave. Unlike the grandiose throne room where the weirdest plots were talked about in order to let even the most incompetent Autobot spy overhear, the briefing room allowed nothing in or out. No Autobots could see or hear whatever went on in there, and neither could any Decepticons waiting about outside. Which was exactly what they were doing, even if they tried not to look like that's what they were doing.

Having the command staff retreat to that room was a Not Good thing. The foolish mission to capture the humans' robot had been a success, but something had gone terribly wrong all the same. Nobody was sure _what_ got skewed, however. The Elite Decepticons uneasily played their parts throughout the rest of the base, laughing nervously about how the humans had created their own downfall in the Nightbird. Had everyone heard how Megatron threatened to replace Starscream with her? Good news, right?

Ha ha ha. Ha. Ha.

When Scrapper and Hook turned in their joint report on the level of technology used to construct the Nightbird, things came to a head. Violently so, if the deep _boom_ of a fist hitting a wall said anything about how happy the officers were. Starscream's voice shrieked out of the doors to the briefing room when they slid open just long enough for Soundwave to stride hurriedly toward the bridge and the ship's communications center console. Megatron's gravelly bark chased his Third out, demanding the traitorous accountant be brought to him _right now_.

Ravage was present in the corridor, and he bounded off to retrieve Ratbat before orders were even transmitted. In the meantime, Soundwave ignored everyone on his way to the bridge, where he scrambled a link to Cybertron. That was another big sign of Very Bad. Bringing Shockwave into the matter risked transmission interception, and Soundwave was never that incautious with Megatron's many-layered deception of the Autobots. But apparently direct contacted was needed, and needed _now_. Soundwave and Shockwave held a quick consultation about whether or not the Autobots were the ones who'd allowed this travesty, and then the Communications Officer cut off the link to return to the meeting, walking just as fast as he'd left it.

The eavesdropping Decepticons on the bridge gave each other startled looks when he'd gone. Accusations of leaking Cybertronian technology to the humans were no trifling matter. The Nightbird was primitive, but she was still been far beyond what the humans should have been able to construct. She was, in fact, a spark and better quality material away from being a protoform. The Constructicons were incensed, but their fury over the humans' warping of Cybertronian design was nothing compared to the upper officer cadre's burning fury.

"Your fragging **plan** will have us enslaved again!" the Air Commander's voice whipped through the open door, and the entire corridor outside winced under that lash. That was no melodramatic acting for the Autobots' benefit. Starscream was _angry_. "Give this species a fingerwidth, and they'll take the whole base! They **use** technology like the parasites they are. They will use **us** given the chance. If they can build a - a **Nightbird**, what will be next? Your frametype? Mine?! We'll be fighting perversions of our own kind soon, and we'll have handed them over into slavery. If this doesn't convince you of their danger, then - "

A heavy smash of metal signaled Megatron's fist coming down on the table, but not even Rumble dared move enough to peer through the cracked-open door to see if Megatron had stood to confront his treacherous Second head-on. "Your cowardice sickens me. The humans are advanced enough to be useful; we will destroy or enslave **them** when we are done with this filthy planet. Perhaps you are afraid that this Nightbird will replace you, hmm?"

Ravage's summons brought Ratbat winging through down the corridor at that moment, interrupting Starscream's furious reply, although the roaring screech had been answer enough to pin the air ranks to the walls. Ratbat nearly backwinged away from the door, in fact, but Soundwave plucked him neatly out of the air as the Communication Officer grimly shouldered back into the briefing room. The Cassetticon had good cause to be jittery and all but throwing his purchase books open for inspection. Primus knew the Cassette would use whatever wasn't nailed down to acquire more fuel for energon conversion, but even he wouldn't tamper with the technology ban. He wouldn't sell the humans Cybertronian tech just for more energon.

Megatron's orders on the matter were absolute: the humans were too dangerous already with just Autobot assistance. The aid of Cybertronian tech could make them a real threat. Defying the ban was an automatic death sentence.

The rest of the Elite weren't privy to the rest of the argument, but Bombshell's sudden inclusion in the Nightbird plot said better than eavesdropping that Megatron had decided to use the abomination instead of destroy it. He'd chosen to disregard Starscream's words. That rarely ended well. Never, really. The flyers suddenly weren't the only ones walking carefully. There were very good reasons that a commander didn't piss off his executive officer - or wave off his cautions. The same could be said about the reverse, but only an idiot would have tried telling either Supreme Commander or Air Commander about power balances and unchecked egos right then.

Genuine conflict happened sometimes. The Decepticons were founded on the ideals of strength honed by constant testing and peace won through war, and that was a philosophy that made life…interesting. Advancement through the ranks was often fatal for those displaced to make way for new metal. Starscream and Megatron were notoriously combative on the best of days, but the situation exacerbated their personality differences. In addition to that, the absurd roles they played on Earth stung their pride in the worst way. Violence was to be expected when the two monumentally strong and proud mechs heading the faction got riled enough to clash.

Between stung pride, stubbornness, and different perspectives on a volatile situation, it was no surprise that they'd turned on each other today. The timing, however, had even Soundwave looking hunted. The off-world campaigns were just getting started; tensions were high. Everyone was policing their behavior, trying to keep the Autobots deceived as the Decepticon troops on Cybertron stealthily began shifting through space bridges to conquer new worlds. The whole Elite knew that one slip on their end could alert the Prime's group of Earth-mad Autobots to the deception. This was not the time for a major upset in the upper ranks!

Fortunately, both officers knew that - or they'd remembered after Soundwave and Shockwave had respectfully reminded them. Either way, the brewing storm ended in a sour-faced Starscream stalking from the briefing room. The Seeker resumed his role in the ploy without a hitch, but he didn't bother to hide his fuming. That was bad enough, but Megatron's smug triumph for making the Air Commander back down had the Elite tip-toeing around for fear of setting the two temperamental officers off again.

Making the Nightbird intelligent had unnerved the lot of them already. Bombshell had come out of consultation with the Constructicons looking disturbed at how little he'd had to install. Bringing the human-made drone up to the level of artificial intelligence had been too easy. She was that close to their own designs. Too close.

Megatron's continued sniping commentary about replacing the Air Commander with her sent the air ranks fluttering, unsettled all over again. It was one thing to joke about making her a Decepticon in the context of the deception, but replacing an officer? Replacing _Starscream_? Everyone's unease deepened gradually to where nobody could tell whether or not the Supreme Commander was being serious anymore. It was a joke in poor taste, at this point. Replacing Starscream with a human-made construct? Not a good idea, no, and a joke that wasn't funny in the least.

It was also a joke that'd run too far. _Everyone_ knew when the Air Commander took an actual shot at Megatron's back. Outside of, well, the whole traitor act put on for the Autobots, that was. It was kind of a big deal. Not the shot itself - if the Seeker had wanted to cause real damage, he had better weapons on hand - but the symbolism.

The Supreme Commander bellowed laughter, apparently chalking it up to his Second's flashpoint temper, but his Second had been taking a stand that everyone witnessed. That wasn't so laughable. Yes, they'd grinned and gone along with the plot. Yes, they'd abandoned the Air Commander to his 'punishment' and left to follow Megatron. Their uncertainty leaked out around the edges, however. Mumbles and discreet mutters were exchanged the whole flight to the battleground, but nothing was resolved.

The Decepticons were divided and confused by the time they met the Autobots in battle: half believing Starscream was right in disagreeing with the plan, and half stubbornly convinced that the show must go on. They'd taken their internal conflict out on the Autobots, because that at least didn't change. Trying to kill the infernally lucky 'bots was something they could all agree on. Things would be so much easier if one of them could just manage to take out the blasted Prime! No more playing along with the charade, pretending that humankind could defeat them. They could wipe the whole fragging planet and be done with it. No more infernally clever natives to build almost-Cybertronian robots.

Then Starscream took matters into his own hands.

Letting the Nightbird fall back into the Autobots' mad hands had not been part of Megatron's plan, but it was something Starscream ensured would happen. He deviated from the plan intentionally by shooting the Nightbird in the back. The Seeker seemed absolutely determined that Megatron realize how dangerous the humans could be, and letting the fleshlings keep their first attempt at Cybertronian frame-building had thumbed his nose at his commander. Megatron was _furious_.

Starscream's defiant act took the Nightbird away from the Decepticons. In order to retrieve her, it would now require a serious long-term plan to divert the Autobots' attention and make sure they never realized the Decepticons on Earth were fully capable instead of crazy. Soundwave immediately began constructing such a plan. What choice did he have? They couldn't allow the humans to keep her.

In two years time, Dr. Fujiyama and all his assistants would die in a tragic laboratory explosion, his notes would disappear into classified files confiscated by the Japanese government, and somehow, the Nightbird herself would just disappear. Any suspicion or inquiries into the project would run into corrupt government bureaucracy. If there wasn't corruption in place now, there would be by then. The Decepticons would never be connected to the accident, the missing files, or the ninjabot's disappearance.

It wouldn't erase humankind's odd venture into Cybertronian technology, but Starscream's victorious, vicious smile made it clear he found it a better solution than whatever Megatron had originally planned.

The Supreme Commander was…not pleased by his Second's underhanded sabotage. The Autobot spies that followed them from the battlefield witnessed one of the few real beatdowns Starscream had earned on Earth since the Decepticons had woken from their madness. The Seeker hadn't put Megatron's grand scheme at risk, but his obstinate refusal to go along with the cover had disrupted what would have otherwise been an effective operation meant to distract the Autobots. The Nightbird would have kept them from looking anywhere near where the space bridge opened.

Instead of beginning an invasion, Shockwave had shut down the space bridge and was waiting for a new operational schedule from Soundwave. The Communications Officer had been in repairs since the Nightbird's recapture. That wasn't a surprise, as half the Elite had been in repairs.

Hence, the Constructicons' long repair list.

That wasn't as big a deal as it sounded. They were used to long repair jobs, and triage had already shuffled the worst injuries in and out of the repair bay. Mixmaster and Long Haul were down to hammering out dents and restringing popped wires for mechs who couldn't fix themselves, and Scrapper was trying to get the electricity back in the barracks'-extension that'd been built onto the _Victory_. Bonecrusher and Scavenger were working off-base on constructing a hidden energon storage depot. It was all tedious scutwork, but necessary. Even the lead team in the Decepticon Empire's Engineering Division occasionally had to fix stuff well below their skill level, even if Hook never let anyone hear the end of it. It kept the illusion of incompetency up for the Autobots, in any case. What possible reason other than being stark raving bonkers would have Megatron wasting his best surgeon's time untangling a Cassetticon's knotted tape?

The other Constructicons actually found the menial work oddly satisfying. Every time a patient left or a console got patched, the list updated. There was something profoundly pleasant about watching a repair list get shorter.

It was prioritized and posted on the touchscreen just inside the repair bay door. If anyone came in to give them grief about how long it was taking to patch that leak down on Level 6, Scrapper could just point at the list. The screen was locked to Constructicon use only, because particularly persistent naggers often tried to change the priority order. Then Bonecrusher took great pleasure in showing the list up close and personal by smashing attempted-meddlers' faces into the wall next to the screen.

Decepticons could be slow learners however, so Mixmaster and Long Haul both turned to glare when Astrotrain poked his head in the door. "Status on Soundwave?"

"Why do people never use the comm. for status updates anymore?" Hook asked no one from further back in the repair bay. His cohorts just pointed at the screen and turned back to their own work.

Astrotrain hadn't used the communications system because using the comm. wouldn't get him up and moving. Security shift duty involved far too much sitting around on his aft watching other mechs do things on big monitors. Important to keep track of, yeah, but monumentally boring. Fortunately, he was sharing a shift with Ravage right now. Not only could the technimal do the surveillance thing better than Astrotrain ever could, but he preferred to do it alone. The weird part was that Ravage, of everybody, had indicated ignorance on Soundwave's status before practically shoving his shift-partner out the door to go check the repair bay in person.

Not that the shuttle would ever admit to being ordered around by a Cassetticon smaller than his hand. He'd come here so he wasn't sitting still anymore. He walked in, taking the pointed fingers as implicit permission to invade Constructicon territory, and checked the screen. "Huh. Says here he was released."

"Congratulations, you can read." Hook finally made an appearance, following the wave of contempt he projected ahead of himself like a self-important schooner plowing through a lake of disdain. The healthy intruder to the _H.M.S. Hook_'s domain found himself under a vulture's speculative gaze. "Is there a point to informing us of what we already know?"

Said healthy intruder, one Astrotrain by name, hated talked to the Constructicons for this very reason. They were engineers, not medics, so he always got the feeling they were one step away from using his offline carcass for raw materials. They constantly eyed him like they were just waiting for him to end up under their tools. He could swear that Scavenger sized up his thrusters for future salvage whenever he was in for maintenance. "Yeah," Astrotrain said, surreptitiously putting another repair berth between himself and the surgeon. "Where is he?"

Hook's supremely unimpressed look yawned vast, indicating that he neither knew nor cared that Soundwave had been due to send Shockwave the revised operations schedule three breems ago. Other mechs' scheduling SNAFUs were not Hook's problem. Also, he didn't care where Soundwave had disappeared to. He was a surgical engineer, not a nannybot. '_Feel the depths of how little I care_,' his Look said.

"Megatron sent me to find him," Astrotrain blithely informed The Look, neglecting to add that Megatron hadn't told him to go dump locating Soundwave onto the Constructicons' shoulders. To be fair, Astrotrain had tried pinging a location request at Soundwave before Ravage had sent him to the repair bay.

Name-dropping did wonders. As did Hook's perfectionist tendencies, which popped up the nagging question of whether the Communication Officer's repairs had actually been complete. It wasn't _likely_ that Soundwave had collapsed in a corner somewhere, but it was vaguely possible. The _H.M.S. Hook_ tolerated no errors on board. "Frenzy! Get your miniature chassis and underclocked processor over here," he called back the way he'd come.

Grumbling preceded the Cassetticon. He walked with a distinct limp, still, which explained his presence in the repair bay. Also why he wasn't putting up more of a fuss than, "'Miniature' my pile-drivers!" to Hook's snide comment. Astrotrain grinned appreciatively. Ah, power. It was a beautiful thing to behold - and hold over someone.

"Where's Soundwave?"

"Dunno."

Hook bent down and lifted Frenzy by one arm, ignoring the kicking and cursing that commenced. "I **said**, where is the Third-in-Command of the Decepticons?" the Constructicon demanded with more emphasis. Emphasis that came in the form of some armor-unsettling shaking to spell out that this wasn't idle conversation.

The watching triple-changer sighed wistfully. If he had the authority to do that to Ravage, tromping around the base like a messenger-bot could have been avoided. Well, if he hadn't kind of wanted to get out of the boring Security room in the first place. And if he didn't mind four paws full of really sharp claws ambushing him out of dark places for the rest of eternity. Ravage didn't hold grudges so much as keep them alive to play with later like a housecat slowly mangling a mouse.

"Ga-a-a-ah! Cu-u-ut it ou-ou-out!" The surgeon did so with ill grace, and Frenzy hung from his hand with helm tokking back and forth for a moment more. "…I dunno. Wait!" The Cassetticon flung up his free arm, legs kicking helplessly as Hook lifted him for more shaking. "Seriously! I don't know where he is! He's not answering my comm.!"

"Really." The Constructicon stared down at him, more alerts popping up in his perfectionist mind. Soundwave not abiding by schedules was one of the signs of the Carmeggedon, wasn't it? Not picking up a Cassetticon call was a definite sign of problems, anyway, and that meant Hook had missed something. What could he have possibly missed repairing that was bad enough to take Soundwave out?

"I think he's in his quarters," Frenzy added helpfully. Mostly because being helpful beat getting shaken until his head lolled. "Rumble said the door's locked, though. Dunno why." That was less helpful than he thought, and he hesitated before adding, "Laserbeak thinks he's hiding."

Both Hook and Astrotrain just…looked at him. Soundwave. Hiding. These two words did not line up in their minds.

Before either of them could ask anything more, the door slid open again. Bright wings and brighter optics tumbled in and turned, all aflurry, to paw at the priority list. The screen blurred around desperately pressing fingers, but the list stayed locked.

"Why's Starscream not repaired yet?" Dirge yelped, stabbing harder. Skywarp leaned heavily against his side as he attempted to catch and drag the numbers around, but the Conehead was too dismayed by the list to protest being a makeshift crutch. Or rather, from the shaky look about him, he seemed to be relying on the support just as much. "Why's he so far down on this thing? You gotta repair him, Hook! You - "

Skywarp slowly transferred his weight to the wall, turning to put his wings flat against it as he slid downward. Dirge yipped and tried to drag him back upright, but that just made the Seeker slumped against the Conehead's other side lose his balance. Thundercracker didn't so much fall as melt to the floor. Dirge looked between Skywarp and Thundercracker and _whined_, engines spinning up in audible distress.

Mixmaster and Long Haul jolted, caught by the false-fear Dirge was notorious for. The sound was generated by the Conehead's engines. Only being aware of the source of their senseless fear kept the two Constructicons from panicking, but they stepped closer together as if to fend off the sound. Astrotrain shook his shoulders as if to break loose of it.

"Ah…" Hook straightened as much to loom as to remind himself that he wasn't actually afraid. Frenzy kicking his leg repeatedly helped with that. "Megatron's orders, you know that. Starscream is not to be repaired until all other repairs are completed."

After the chaos caused by the upset of the Nightbird plan, the Air Commander should count himself lucky he'd be repaired at all, even if those repairs were long in coming. Megatron didn't incapacitate his Second on a whim; he'd been understandably furious. Starscream had remained defiant through most of the beating, under the sniveling and begging put on for the Autobot spies, and Megatron had taken the punishment further as a result. Insubordination, even for the Air Commander, carried consequences. Although even Hook had to admit that the Decepticon Supreme Commander had been pushing the mech. Not that it excused turning the Nightbird over to the humans again, but that was a debate for another time. Starscream had been a beaten pile of scrap when Hook had seen him last.

It…didn't appear that was the case anymore.

Dirge wasn't in good shape. Beyond the stressed, whining drone from his engines, the Conehead had a frantic, frightened look on his face. There seemed to be finger-shaped indents on his neck cabling, and there was a definite handprint embossed into his cone-helm. A set of bite marks decorated one air intake. The mech looked like he'd barely stumbled away from a mauling.

The other two Seekers weren't any better off. Skywarp was gazing around the repair bay as if he'd never seen it before, and Dirge's twitchy prey imitation had nothing on the way Skywarp's wings and hands tried to dig themselves into the wall. Petro-rabbits outside their boltholes had that same look if someone nailed them with a spotlight.

Alarmed, Hook took a step forward. Skywarp had a hole punched through his cockpit, and - was that _spark-light?!_ It glittered through the cockpit's remaining glass, and the reflected light made Thundercracker's dazed optics look empty. The blue Seeker didn't have a mark on him, which made his condition all the more baffling.

Astrotrain cautiously waved a hand in front of the unharmed jet's face without a response. "Nobody home," the shuttle said, giving Hook a puzzled look.

Dirge spun in place, optics tearing from Thundercracker to Skywarp to the door and back again. The Conehead seemed conflicted about which way to flee, and Hook fought off a brief spasm of unreasonable fear (_The ceiling was not going to cave in!_) as fine-tuned engines roared. Astrotrain grimaced, one massive fist raised in clear threat. Dirge didn't even seem to notice, but his engine hit an air pocket in a kinked fuel line and sputtered into a revving set of hiccups.

"What is going on here?" Hook asked. Nobody answered.

Huffing air through his systems impatiently, the surgeon dropped Frenzy. The Cassetticon immediately scurried under a repair berth by the other two Constructicons, who'd stopped their own work to watch. Astrotrain had let his fist fall and gone back to poking at Thundercracker, and Dirge was making little abortive steps toward the nearest berths like he wanted to hide behind them. Skywarp seemed the easiest jet to examine at the moment, so Hook went to one knee at his side. The purple-and-black Seeker kept looking around the room without focusing on the Constructicon now beside him, and when Hook experimentally ghosted a hand over the periphery of the flyer's electromagnetic field, it felt oddly flat against his palm.

He didn't do _gentle_ well on the best of days, but Hook did his best to not sound - how did Scrapper put it? Ah, yes - like an overbearingly arrogant know-it-all. A charming description of a fellow gestaltmate, but Hook's scathing retort hadn't been any kinder. Regardless, this was not a situation to pull such tones of voice out in. Skywarp looked traumatized enough.

"Skywarp," Hook said, not gently but not entirely impatiently. "Skywarp, can you hear me?"

For a moment, the jet didn't reply. Hook brought his hand close enough to brush one shoulder, however, and Skywarp exploded into a whirlwind of flailing limbs scrambling down the wall away from him. "**Whuuyaaaaah!**" One turbine kicked out and, by luck mostly, _clang_ed off Hook's helm.

"Skywarp!" barked out. The _H.M.S. Hook_ was in full sail on the Sea of Caustic Contempt. "Sit your aft down before I weld it to the floor!"

Skywarp stopped in mid-flail, but the pitiful look hiding behind the arms flung up to cover his face was almost worse than the spastic motions. This was a Seeker of the Decepticon Elite, not a lost, helpless refugee of war. "…Hook?"

"Yes," the Constructicon confirmed. "Are you sane enough to be examined, or shall I restrain you?"

The Seeker's optics darted about the room in a strange manner. The lenses were blown wide, and Hook would almost have diagnosed him as blinded if he hadn't glimpsed a split-second of recognition when Skywarp pinpointed his location. The abnormal behavior seemed to be the result of an inability to focus, then. "Hook, where…where am I?"

"You're in the repair bay, moron," Astrotrain drawled. Hook glanced to the side, where the shuttle had manhandled Thundercracker upright again. The blue flyer still wasn't responsive, but he was pliant enough to obey physical urging and stand on his own. Now he swayed in place, staring at nothing. It bothered Hook to see solemn, dignified Thundercracker stalled out this way.

"No. I mean, where..?" A tentative hand reached out, and it wavered badly. The fingers flexed as if Skywarp literally couldn't find Hook. "I mean…Hook?" The Constructicon was kneeling _beside him._ Even if his equilibrium and optic sensors were shot, Skywarp should have been able to find him by radar, lidar, proximity sensors, or by hearing. Hook frowned and moved his own hand to intercept, helping the flyer find him, and Skywarp's hand clamped on with an urgency not present in the Seeker's uncertain voice. The clinginess was remarkably strange, if nothing else. "**Where** am I, Hook?" The hand squeezed, begging for reassurance. "I don't know where I am. I don't have - it's all gone. I can't find the calculations. The equations are giving me gibberish. The numbers are **wrong**, Hook!"

Half-hysteria broke back down to quiet terror when Astrotrain finally thumped Dirge, cutting off the Conehead's false-fear engine thrum. It'd been building back up steadily, which explained some of Skywarp's disorientation, anyway. Hook shook himself, shrugging off the after-effects, but the Seeker jolted before relaxing only slightly. He began rocking in place, wings knocking against the wall softly. His hand slid from Hook's and went instead to cover the exposed blue-white glitter of spark-light.

And he talked, quiet and almost chanting, "The sky is falling. The sky is falling. The sky is falling. The sky…Hook?" The dark Seeker's head tilted, unfocused optics crimped at the corners with the strain it took to gather shreds of sanity. The wide red lenses looked straight through Hook. "Are we still on Earth?"

*_"I'm calling Scrapper,"*_ Mixmaster announced over internal commlink.

_*"I don't know if he's the one we need,"*_ Hook countered, lifting one hand to wave steadily back and forth in front of the flyer's face. The optics didn't track. _*"His spatial sensors are either completely out of alignment or blown out. We need to recalibrate his warp generator from the sensor net all the way back to program integration if that's the case."_* Aloud, he said, "Yes, Skywarp. We're still on Earth. Why did you think we would have left?"

The jet tilted his head the other way, wounded Neutral look as pathetic as any Hook had ever seen. "Because the numbers are all wrong. The sky's gone." Skywarp sounded strangely plaintive, as if he wanted the surgeon to make the universe right again. "He took the world away."

_*"Sounds like more than his spatial sensors are out of whack,"*_ Long Haul put in, and amusement seeped over the gestalt bond. It _was_ kind of funny listening to Skywarp like this, at least in a sick way.

*_"His processor's capacity is streamlined for information efficiency,"*_ Hook said, more interested in Skywarp's physical symptoms than the Seeker's rambling words. _*"Get a glitch that unbalances the generator's equation model, and his CPU starts diverting more than it can spare to trying to run the numbers until they correct."*_

_*"He's got escape precedence set into his self-repair,"*_ Scrapper reminded them, dropping into the conversation easily. *"_Everything goes into that warp generator.*"_

*"_I've never seen him this disoriented before,"*_ Long Haul mused. *"_His network conduits have hardlines running on either side of his spark chamber. They might be damaged enough to be feeding him bad data."*_

*"_If he's getting as many wrong numbers as he's saying, his sensors could be telling him he's on Mars right now for all he knows. I'm two breems from finishing this task. Knock the flyers out and put them on the list above the Level 6 leak, and send Astrotrain to fetch Soundwave. We're going to need a program specialist on this one."*_ Scrapper cut back out of the conversation, presumably returning to his work.

_*"Wonder who piledrived that hole in him?"*_ Mixmaster asked, also returning to work.

"He took the world away," Skywarp mumbled to the floor, a mantra that was doing nothing to calm Dirge down. The Conehead's engines were whining again despite the threatening fist Astrotrain raised. "He took the world away."

"Dirge!" Hook snapped, standing. "Plant your aft on that berth and do **not** move." He pointed to the nearest berth, ignoring the Cassetticon hiding underneath it. Dirge's engine hiccupped again, so at least the jet registered the Constructicon's presence. He wasn't obeying the order, but he'd heard Hook speak. That was more than Thundercracker was apparently capable of. The surgeon shook his head angrily and grabbed Skywarp by the arm the Seeker wasn't using to cover his broken cockpit. He wasn't so cruel as to take away whatever sad protection was left for the jet's exposed spark chamber. "Astrotrain, bring me Soundwave. I am calling repair priority unless Lord Megatron personally overrides me."

The triple-changer shut his mouth, cut off mid-protest by the surgeon's words. Considering the odd circumstances, Megatron would likely concede that the repair bay had a better claim on his Third at the moment. Shockwave would protest, but he could wait a while longer. Cybertron wasn't going anywhere. Anyway, that was something for the Decepticon high command and the Constructicon currently pulling on Skywarp's arm to hash out, not something for Astrotrain to protest.

"Skywarp, get up," Hook ordered, dismissing the triple-changer from the repair bay and his austere presence in one. "Get **up**. Straighten your legs. Good. Now, move."

Astrotrain headed out of the repair bay toward the officer quarters as the surgeon began hauling Skywarp toward a berth. Frenzy laughed at the Constructicon's grunt of effort and the black-and-purple Seeker's continued mumbled mantra, but an annoyed glare from the crane had the Cassetticon limping out from under shelter. Wise Decepticons knew to stay in the Constructicons' good graces.

Frenzy started to chivvy Dirge along. "Yo, move your winged aft. Hellooo? Wake up and move it, flybo - **whoa**!" The smaller mech skittered back as Dirge darted forward, lunged around the berth, and hid behind it. "Slagbucket!"

Shaking arms came up, trying to aim at the door, and the unstable rattle of Dirge's fans underscored his strained voice. "Get away from me!"

It'd have been a much more threatening display if the connector points for his shoulder-mounted weaponry weren't damaged scrap. Snapped wires and warped metal sparked where the weapons themselves had been torn loose. Hook gave the mech a disgusted look and guided his reeling charge right through the 'blast zone.' Dirge didn't seem to register that he was coming off as less than threatening at the moment. His arms wavered, trying to aim missing weapons around the two mechs passing through his targeted area.

Frenzy stood on the other side of the berth, head craned to see over it, and snorted at the lame intimidation attempt. "Or what? You'll point at me? Ooo, scary."

The two Constructicons still working exchanged a long look. The frantic flyer seemed to have forgotten that they were standing behind him. Long Haul took a step forward, seized the jet by the sizzling connectors on either shoulder, and heaved him up onto the berth top before Dirge could do more than thrash once in panicked reflex. The Conehead scrambled for a second, but that only pulled more wires out of already damaged connectors. He yelped, flinching back, and the Constructicon now looming over him reached up to dig his fingers into the handprint that'd been pressed into the distinctive helm of the jet's frametype. Long Haul's hand was too broad for the print, but he pressed his fingertips into the damaged areas to make sure it hurt.

"Sit," the hauler pulled the jet backward until he could snarl right into his face, borrowing some of his gestaltmate's acidic verbal bite to make certain he had Dirge's full attention, "or I'll tie you down." He released his handhold so forcefully the flyer had to flail his arms to keep from being flung to the floor.

Dirge looked back at Long Haul, tensed to flee. Long Haul glared, held up the hand he'd used to grab the jet's head, and balled it, one finger at a time, into a fist.

Dirge sat.

"Okay, right," Frenzy said, smirking. "Glad that's settled."

"Right," Long Haul agreed. He didn't look away from the jet. Dirge stared back, optics flicking cagily from him to the door. The mech was obviously going to run for it the moment the Constructicon blinked. Therefore, Long Haul didn't blink. Whatever threat _might_ come through the door couldn't compare right this moment with the actual threat that was the big fist being held over the flyer's head.

If Hook hadn't been wrestling his own jet around, he'd have spared an approving nod for his gestaltmate's handling of the Conehead. Unfortunately, he missed Long Haul channeling his personality because Skywarp was being difficult. The purple-and-black Seeker wasn't fighting Hook's directions, but he wasn't helping, either. It was like trying to wrestle a life-sized Decepticon doll around. It reminded the other two Constructicons in the room of how Hook and Scrapper had manhandled the Nightbird robot around earlier, and the surgeon had to shake off the unease leaking through the gestalt bond. Skywarp's mind was dazed, not absent. It was a consequence of a glitch drawing power from his CPU, possibly shock from having his spark hanging out in the open. It was fixable.

In the meantime, it was annoying as a squeaky joint. "You are **useless**," the Seeker was told with a shove toward the berth. Hook huffed irritably when Skywarp overshot and stumbled into Dirge's berth instead of the one beside it. "Rust your wings!"

The nervous Conehead on the berth jittered, having settled on staring fixedly at the door. He didn't even notice Skywarp practically slouched on top of him. "You gotta fix him," Dirge told no one and everyone. "He's crazy. You gotta fix him before he gets worse." Glazed, fitfully-flickering optics looked at Hook when the surgeon went around the berth after Skywarp. The dark Seeker was fumbling along, hands still searching for something stable to hold on to. "Why haven't you fixed him? You gotta fix him."

The Cassetticon still standing in front of the berth looked warily at the door. Dirge's engine noise aside, the mech's injuries weren't inspiring confidence that he was just babbling nonsense. "What happened to him?" Frenzy asked. He tried to sound tough and barely managed wary.

"Looks like he underestimated the Air Commander," Long Haul speculated, deciding that his teammate could probably use a hand. No matter the insulted look he got in return. Dirge had evolved from mere blathering to clinging like a barnacle when Skywarp found and latched onto his thruster. It'd take some doing to get the two flyers separated. "Mech's nasty when he's got a point to prove, y'know."

As if he wasn't talking to a Cassetticon? Frenzy directed an unimpressed look at the Constructicon. He worked surveillance and information, for pity's sake. He knew how vicious Starscream could be when damaged, or when he felt his rank was threatened.

Long Haul shrugged back. He was merely pointing out what he thought had happened. "In-fighting in the flight ranks, maybe."

It fit the weirdly _physical_ damage left on Dirge, but…it still didn't sit right. Teeth marks and imprinted handprints, yeah, but what the frag could Starscream have done to leave Thundercracker staring vacantly into space? Or glitched Skywarp into wandering in dizzy circles? Hook cursed and tried to get clear of Dirge's hold in order to guide the pathetically dazed Seeker to the correct berth, but even with Long Haul helping pry fingers loose, the Conehead wasn't letting go. The three flyers sure didn't seem like they were ready to overthrow the Air Commander. Slag if Frenzy could recall Dirge ever making a power grab without Thrust or Ramjet at his side, either. Things weren't quite adding up correctly.

"Doesn't make sense." Troubled, Frenzy looked between the door and the tangle of Constructicons and Seekers. Long Haul made a questioning noise indicating he was still listening, but the short mech was mostly thinking out loud. "Last order I got from Soundwave was to make sure the base was clear of Autobot widgets. We did a sweep right before my docket on the list came up." He'd reported an 'all-clear' to Soundwave, and then gone to Hook for repairs.

And that's when the Communication Officer had pointedly cut off comm. contact. That'd been odd to begin with, but securing the base and then his own quarters seemed to reinforce the theory about a power struggle in the flight ranks. Keeping the Autobots from seeing beyond the Earth-mad play-act was priority one, and disguising how Decepticon politics really worked was a big part of that. Secondary concern for Soundwave's low-risk profile, however, was to keep himself safe during dangerous upheavals in the ranks. Keeping his Cassettes out and gathering information during the worst of it fit his low-risk preference, too.

Low-risk for himself, anyway. He sent them out where he wouldn't venture.

Sometimes it sucked, being Soundwave's Cassette.

Overall, Frenzy's conclusion was that Something Was Up. He narrowed his visor, rapidly gathering information from his fellow Cassetticons. _*"Check-in. Whose got optics on heavy damage?"*_

The only mech on base still sporting major wounds should have been curled up in his quarters recharging or working at self-repair in one of the lower labs. Starscream wasn't one for exposing himself to potential assassination attempts while out of Megatron's favor; both his quarters and the lab he'd claimed as his own were minor defensive fortresses.

Ravage was slotted into the Security room's monitor array covering for Astrotrain's absence, and he sent back a denial on those two obvious locations. _*"Corridor cameras show no activity in the relevant officer deck beyond Soundwave returning to quarters. The locks for the laboratories haven't been tampered with. The logs list Mixmaster and Scavenger in the past two orns."*_

Hook finally got Dirge to let go of his arm with a quick stiff-fingered jab into sensitive circuitry. "I will **fix** Starscream when his slot on the list comes up, and not before. Take care of **this** one," he snapped at his teammate. Long Haul snorted hot air out his vents, already smacking Dirge flat and spooling a set of restraints out of the head and foot of the berth. The Conehead really began struggling when he saw that! Mixmaster put down his work at last, grumbling, and headed over to help. Dirge almost succeeded in squirming free of Long Haul's hold, and that's when the wrestling match truly began.

"He took the sky away," Skywarp continually repeated in the meantime, optics still blindly unfocused. His hands clenched and opened uncertainly at his sides. His head kept turning, but he didn't see anything. "He took the sky away."

He startled violently, trying to jerk away when Hook brusquely nabbed him by one wing and used it to push him toward the right berth this time. The surgeon was having none of it, however, and took advantage of the Seeker's reeling lack of focus to pin one wrist down enough to get a restraint around it. That seemed to flummox the flyer briefly. Skywarp pulled on his trapped wrist, blown-wide optical lenses at least pointed in the right direction. It was an improvement of sorts. Hook observed him for a long moment, trying to tell if it program glitch or hardware error causing the disorientation and strange behavior.

Frenzy took a step back from the berth Dirge was fighting to stay off of as Rumble reported, _*"I've seen zilch __while standin' __guard. Megatron's got the __bridge__ cleared_."* That meant the tyrant was probably sitting in his command chair, savoring the silence and brooding.

Ratbat nixed that thought by chiming in, _*"I am currently discussing my purchasing schedule with him. Why isn't Soundwave answering hails? Shockwave must be updated immediately._"*

_*"How'd you get past me?!"*_ Rumble blustered. _*"You're lyin'! Where the fragging scrap are ya, liar!"*_

The technimal Cassetticon scorned words and just sent back a rude image of the back of Rumble's helm, facing down the corridor leading to the _Victory_'s control room. It'd obviously been taken from the door to the room itself, which Rumble was supposed to be guarding from intruders. Autobot intruders, not fellow Cassettes, but still. That was a zing to Rumble's guarding abilities, right there.

_*"C'm**on**, mech,"*_ Frenzy teased absently, combing through the lock-logs Ravage had sent him. The Insecticons had been busy in the lower labs, but that wasn't news. There'd been talk of bringing them out to distract the Autobots someday soon, which was going to be a riot of idiocy. Insecticon clones everywhere were going to make life interesting, to say the least. He hadn't found sign of Starscream, however, and that was worrying him. _*"That the best you can do? I've guarded - "*_

_*"What?"*_ Rumble demanded sourly. _*"Guarded your own aft? Because we all know that's -_ "*

His twin fell silent as well. Laserbeak's transmission had gone up to Ravage's post in the Security room, and the jaguar technimal had forwarded it to the rest of the Cassettes. Now they all watched speechlessly.

Laserbeak had found Starscream. Frenzy had been right to worry.

The mess of fluids left where two competent warriors had once stood puddled along the floor, spreading by the second. The two flyers had curled in on themselves in either submission or an attempt to staunch the spurting fluids, but the glowing liquid stretched well beyond their huddled forms. It tracked down the corridor, following the feet dragging it behind in scraping, sliding footprints leading away from the two Coneheads. Their attacker was done with them.

Processed fuel and oil-hued lubricant pitter-pattered from drenched forearms and hands, but it wasn't the result of self-repair. Home surgery, perhaps, but not on the gaping injuries just barely patched on the Seeker's own body. Twisted wings flared, defiance filling in for the punctured plating. Broken leg-structure half-welded straight were enough to walk on, evidently, although not in a straight line. The footsteps left wet trails on the floor, and those trails wavered where the mech's balance had given out and required a quick side-step to recover.

The video swayed, and the Cassetticons collectively shook their heads. Laserbeak chirped, confused. The transmission interrupted for a moment while he reset his recording equipment and sent a system check query to Ravage as explanation. The birdlike technimal's equilibrium chips were malfunctioning, spinning wildly as the battered form advanced down the hall toward his perch. His sensor network was in upset, causing the malfunction, but Ravage sent back a baseline reading that indicated it was external, not internal error. That alarmed Laserbeak even more, as nothing his visual and audio recording equipment was picking up would account for the loss of equilibrium.

The picture spun, but the audio was fine save for a high, shrill buzzing. Laserbeak rocked back and forth on his perch, trying to keep the picture on the figure trudging toward him. The other Cassetticons could all hear a distinctive rasping chuckle above two sets of gurgling, drowning air filters giving their last gasps. Thrust and Ramjet were in bad shape. Their attacker was intent on acquiring new targets, and the nova-bright fire in his working optic searched the corridor. The birdlike technimal froze as it swept over him, and his fellow Cassetticons tensed.

The optic moved on, fastening on a target somewhere past Laserbeak's perch.

"Where?" Starscream coughed, spitting out a mouthful of energon that might have been his own. Frenzy didn't understand the question. "Where are they?"

_*"Astrotrain,"*_ Ravage growled. _*"I've got him on camera at the end of the corridor. Laserbeak, get out of there."*_

The technimal Cassetticon chirped again, internal tape tightening to the point of tearing as the shrilling buzz rose in his receivers. His automatic system check query transmitted a system log that made no sense when Ravage shared it; the sound registered as a non-sound, despite being heard. It was affecting the Cassette's recording equipment as if it were a near-visible fog clogging his systems.

From the draining tap on the edge of his comm. array, Frenzy knew Soundwave had linked in to download the live view. The Communication Officer's retreat to safety abruptly made pragmatic sense; Frenzy sure as slag didn't want to be outside of a secure location, suddenly. Laserbeak transmitted a stream of mixed-up data that defied interpretation, along with a request for retrieval. He didn't believe himself able to fly. There had to be an error with his equilibrium chips. His gyros were out of whack, but not physically. The sensor input was completely wrong, and he scrambled to fix the information flow.

The red optic and pink-glowing hands could still be seen even through the odd twist affecting the picture. Starscream's blurred form stalked past Laserbeak's perch. "Where?!"

An emergency data purge cleared some of the mix-up, and the technimal Cassetticon shakily sent video again. The corridor dipped crazily until the birdlike Cassette managed to find Starscream again. It wasn't difficult. Astrotrain backed down the corridor one step for every step the damaged Air Commander took toward him, posture defensive. The expression on the triple-changer's face couldn't be made out, even once Ravage took over the broadcast with footage from the security camera. Soundwave issued a retrieval order to Ratbat, who'd either finished his audience with Megatron or been dismissed. Ratbat didn't protest and merely winged through the base toward Laserbeak's location.

Astrotrain continued to retreat. Starscream kept advancing.

Frenzy finally figured out who 'they' were. Also where they were relative to where _he_ was right now.

Aw, frag. Soundwave had had the right idea, hiding out until the danger passed.

"Guys." The Constructicons were too busy to look up when the Cassetticon limped between them, heading toward the back of the bay, but they listened. Frenzy rarely sounded so flat. "Dunno where they're at on the list, but I think you oughta move Ramjet and Thrust up. They're kinda, uh, gushing."

That did nothing to help Long Haul and Mixmaster. Dirge struggled _harder_, nearly yelling, "You gotta fix him!" He kicked his thrusters out, managing to clobber Mixmaster in the head with a twist of his body that didn't seem possible. Long Haul dove over the berth and caught one elbow before the Conehead could eel free. "You gotta!"

Skywarp moaned, optics out of focus but homing in on Dirge's fear nonetheless. Both of the dark flyer's wrists were caught in the repair berth's straps, now, but he wriggled free when Hook paused in winching him down. The Constructicon scowled as the Seeker slipped off the other side of the berth, but the would-be fugitive's knees gave out before he could go anywhere. Skywarp went to the floor almost slowly, blinking the whole way down as if bewildered by his lack of escape. His wrists, still caught, took his weight. The restraints swung him around until he hung by his arms from the head of the berth, legs scraping over to hit the berth supports. He gave a confused squirm, not quite processing what had just happened.

Well, that was a pathetic sight. Elite Decepticon warrior, terror of the skies, reduced to being baffled by a pair of buckled straps. "Fine, sit there for all I care," Hook snapped at him. Skywarp obediently drew his knees up and sat his aft on the floor underneath the berth. That was…disturbing. But whatever. It kept the Seeker in one place.

That was more than could be said of Dirge, whom Long Haul and Mixmaster hadn't wrestled down yet. Hook was surrounded by incompetents.

"What are you talking about?" was spat at Frenzy as the _H.M.S. Hook_ sailed in to seize control of the situation. By grabbing a thruster. Not by the bottom, of course, because panicking jets were prone to doing stupid things like taking flight without sufficient clearance when provoked. It didn't often achieve actual flight, but lit thrusters did tend to do a lot of damage on the ground. The Cassetticon vanished into the back room without answering, and Hook's engine ground angrily, downshifting. The pipsqueak would regret not answering him later, once the surgeon had him open to continue untangling his tap.

Plans of revenge would have to wait. "Dirge! Dirge, you idiot." Hook slammed the foot he was holding down with enough force to flatten the rounded heel-thruster, and that _finally_ got the Conehead's attention. The surgeon leaned his considerable weight on the pinned limb, making sure it stayed pinned as he barked, "Where are your wingmates?"

Red optics fritzing toward white with panic went wider, and the Constructicons clustered around the berth heaved as the flyer bucked. Arm joints strained, but numbers and mass held the advantage for the moment.

_*"I'm getting a priority repair retrieval notice from Security,"*_ Scrapper said over internal commlink, and the three teammates raised their heads in unison. Their gestalt leader forwarded the notice a moment later, and they exchanged looks that were, just slightly, worried. Dirge continued to writhe and kick under their hands. _*"Prep the workshop for surgery, Hook. Looks like…Thrust and Ramjet. Is Dirge still in the repair bay?"*_

_*"He is,"*_ Hook confirmed. Mixmaster lunged and managed to catch Dirge's other thruster at last, although it took all his weight to pin it down to the berth. When he got the leg straight, Hook scooped it into his own hold. The chemist immediately had to lean heavily on the flyer's knees, keeping them straight until his teammate had a grip on both feet.

_*"Something strange's going on,"*_ Long Haul said at the same time, meeting the surgeon's visor with his own. *"_We need to sedate these two."*_ As one, they looked to where Skywarp had stuffed himself under the berth, optics blind but mouth working. He kept repeating the same set of words: lost, away, sky, gone, took. _*"My thinking's that Starscream's flipped and started whaling on whoever he thinks crossed him today."*_

_*"That could be anyone,"*_ Mixmaster put in. He ducked around Long Haul and unspooled a restraint strap. _*"His standards for that are iffy enough when he's not out for vital fluids. My vote is we move Starscream up the repair queue. Seems that he's not disabled enough not to be a threat, but he took some hits to the head. Anybody else catch a look at his helm when Lord Megatron was through with him? We might be looking at processor damage."*_

*"_It is entirely possible that he is using that as an excuse to go after his subordinates."*_ Hook grunted when a particularly hard thrash almost kicked Dirge's legs free. Mixmaster was swearing steadily as he tried to loop the restraint strap around the Conehead's neck, trying to at least keep him on the berth. The chemist couldn't push an energon siphon into a main line when the patient was quite this active. Even Hook had to grudgingly admit that his list of talents didn't include that, so he reserved his ire for Starscream's questionable sanity. _*"He never does take it well when his rank is questioned, and Pit knows the air ranks played that up with that disgusting humanoid today."*_

In Hook's mind, the Nightbird would never qualify as a robot droid, much less a Cybertronian. She'd been a perversion of a real mech's frametype. Scrapper had been reluctantly intrigued by the design innovations, but Hook had been insulted on behalf of his race. He wasn't going to forgive mankind the insult anytime soon, either.

Not that he'd thrown in support of Starscream's cautions to Lord Megatron, but the sentiment could be shared. Hook had definite opinions about such things. He just wasn't going to shriek them at the top of his vocalizer at the armed, volatile Supreme Commander of his own faction. Hence the reason Hook remained undamaged and Starscream had been pounded scrap metal when last seen.

_*"That could be coming around to shoot them in the afts_,"* Scrapper agreed, sounding annoyed. Starscream really was the type to pretend a head wound had caused him to wreck bloody vengeance across the base. _*"Alright. Move him up the list. I'll stand witness to the damage being life-threatening if anyone questions us. Oh, slag and waste, what a mess."*_ Their leader's voice lifted a bit in surprise. It dropped immediately into professional calm, so he must have come across Thrust and Ramjet. _*"Long Haul, I need you here to help transport what's left of these two back to the repair bay. Hook - "*_

_"*I will ready the workshop momentarily,"*_ the surgeon interrupted. He didn't need a reminder like some witless Seeker. _*"Just get them here_, **_if_**_ you can manage that simple task yourself."_*

Long Haul looked up at the ceiling as if asking Primus for patience, then stepped back to let Hook deal with the squirming Conehead on his own. _*"On my way."*_

Mixmaster grinned appreciatively, hiding it by turning his shoulder. Hook had to almost sit on Dirge to keep the jet down, which left the surgeon glaring after Long Haul in affront for the dirty move. Mixmaster himself concentrated on getting the wrist strap buckled. That was the throat strap and one wrist restraint in place; Dirge wasn't getting off the berth, now, however much he flailed.

_*"List's updated,"*_ Long Haul said lightly, walking to the door to drag names around on the priority list before leaving. *"_I'll let Security know we're looking for the Air Commander, shall I?"*_

He casually sauntered out the door. A thrown piece of glass shaken loose from Skywarp's broken canopy shattered against the corridor wall opposite the door, missing him by a fraction of a second, and the hauler's smug chuckle floated back through the door as it closed. Hook's aim was, as all things he practiced, perfect. Just a tad tardy, in this case.

"Fragger," the surgeon muttered. "Frenzy! Get your undersized aft over here and help!" There was no sign of the Cassetticon obeying his order, and the Constructicon marked that down as something else the little mech would learn to regret, later. No one crossed the surgeon for long, especially not on Earth. A ridiculously humiliating revenge on his enemies could be easily worked into an Autobot distraction ploy and suggested to Megatron as part of a larger plan.

Later would come, oh yes, and then Frenzy would regret not obeying orders.

For now, the Cassetticon's disobedience left Mixmaster and Hook on their own. Subduing Dirge was far more of a nuisance task than Hook would have thought. Wrestling the jet around was heating him uncomfortably, and his fans switched on. His systems quickened when internal temperature didn't dump fast enough. The external air temperature was too high to suck heat out. The surgeon twitched as his onboard computer blipped the new numbers onto his heads-up display, and he automatically set a monitoring program on his internal systems. The external temperature reading was obviously an error. The ship had never maintained that temperature, much less now that it had sunk to the bottom of the ocean.

That meant that his temperature gauge was off. How typical of how the orn was going. With Hook's luck today, he'd caught a virus of some kind. That was one more mark against the blasted Conehead, so far as he was concerned.

"Dirge. Dirge! Oh, for…stop. **Stop**, you fool!" Of all the times for Scavenger and Bonecrusher to be offbase, it would be when they needed muscle in the repair bay.

Because lowering himself to manually restraining a patient wasn't annoying enough, his audios decided it was time to chime in with a problem as well. They were registering an error. His whole body was being inundated with a low, building buzz, like a subsonic rattle too subtle to be heard. It ebbed and flowed, surging through him from the feet up, and it rattled his crane line. Mixmaster tried to catch his gaze as if wondering if he felt it, too.

Hook shook his head violently and tried to drive the buzz from his head. "Enough! Sedate him!" he ordered the chemist.

"Fix him!" the Conehead yelled deliriously, still thrashing. They'd gotten his thrusters down at last, but he wasn't letting them get his free hand without a fight.

"He took the world away," Skywarp kept saying, and his volume climbed. His wrists jerked against the restraints helplessly, sawing the straps against the berth edge, but they were meant to hold up to more abuse than mere pulling. The flyer had somehow managed to wedge himself under the berth's head despite his wingspan. The restraints kept his arms outstretched, however, and his knees drew up as if to protect his exposed spark chamber. His head twisted and turned, peering in unfocused hysteria around the repair bay. "He took the world away!"

"Do you hear that?" Mixmaster asked, troubled. The chemist's head tilted to the side, and he gave it a shake as if trying to dislodge a weight.

The question ticked Hook off all the more, and the odd sense of building pressure certainly wasn't helping his temper. His own head felt like it was being squeezed in a clamp, and his audios _burred_. It was less of a sound than a rough, escalating vibration. It caused his vision to fizzle around the edges before his onboard computer compensated for the sensation, but that popped up another set of alerts on his HUD. As his audios kept buzzing, the whirring vibration spread to his equilibrium chips. That temperature glitch wasn't helping matters as his HUD crowded more alerts onto his queue. That temperature reading was unreal.

The surgeon dismissed the glitch in favor of the vibration. That, at least, was real. "The ship is shaking. Seismic shift, perhaps."

"No." Red optics looked down at the free wrist in his grasp, and Mixmaster frowned. Dirge yanked futilely. "That's not a dirtside sound."

The alerts multiplied. A whole host of new errors entered his queue. Hook scowled at them, at his teammate, at the blasted flyers disrupting his day. Why, by Primus' rusted crooked camshaft, had an atmospheric reading just shut down his flight systems? He didn't need to fly anywhere at the moment, but that wasn't the point. His flight systems were fine-tuned. He'd done the maintenance himself. When flight could mean the difference between life or death in a fight, a mech didn't let even small errors slide. Hook didn't let _any_ errors slide, ever. The barrage of error alerts was a personal offense.

The flight system shut-down was as irritating as the temperature gauge glitch. Hook's body wasn't prone to unexplainable errors, especially ones with no basis in reality. He sent a system query after the alert and found the series of warnings that'd led to it: air composition drop. The necessary gas combination for atmospheric flight had been disappearing from the repair bay's air. The Constructicons were not Seeker frames with advanced flight engines, but his thrusters were no more capable of space flight than theirs, either. His flight system had shut down on automatic, claiming that there was no atmosphere to feed the flames.

How absurd. His intakes sucked in a full ventilation cycle, chemical receptors at the ready, and he force-fed the resulting data into his onboard computer. It was stale, but it was air.

It was…hot. Hot enough to heat-soften sensitive receptor nodes, and that was something no glitch could cause.

Hook had just enough time to look up, fritzing sensors zeroing in on the direction of the heat source, as the buzzing, whining _thrum_ came to a crescendo.

The door to the repair bay peeled open, and a volcanic wind blew Hook and Mixmaster off balance. They stumbled back, arms flung up over their faces defensively, so they missed dragon's breath melting their carefully-sorted priority list to slag on the wall. Even if they'd seen, they'd have been taking shelter instead of protesting. The screen warped, sagged, and burst into flames before drooling to the floor in a stream of liquefied material. The metal circuitry behind the screen dribbled downward as well, only to be met by a blast of rising heat. A fan of scalding droplets scattered in an upward spray that melted paint on impact.

Fire crawled through the open door and licked up the frame in writhing coils, decorating it like Hell's threshold. A roaring wave poured through and rolled over the floor in a tidal flood the moment the door slid open far enough. The corridor outside was a screen of dancing blue-white-orange-red that radiated heat that burned the very air in the repair bay.

From the lethal, hypnotic smelter's mouth emerged blue, silver-white, red. He strode into the repair bay wreathed in a crackling inferno, and the multicolored flames painted his wings dazzling colors where the metal plating had been wrenched away. His injuries burned brighter, transmuting weakness to strength. Torn edges heated cherry red and sparking. The damage to his helm reflected brilliant diamonds and piercing flashes of color like a crown of suns. His one working optic was brightest yet: a pit to an inferno, a gateway to rage that reflected and fed a fire hotter than flames.

The floor at his feet softened and spread, a steaming ripple laid out before royalty. Where the fuel evaporated to gas, it ignited. A carpet of scorching, roiling flame hovered at knee height, and he stood in the boiling pool of fire like he'd risen untouched from the source.

Starscream knew how to make an entrance.

_*"He opened a Primus'-fragged **fuel line**,"*_ Mixmaster gasped, and now the air really was gone. Their intakes labored, taking in more heat than their fans could dump.

The buzzing vibration had risen to a high, throbbing roar like the burn of fire in space, snatching combustion from the airless void and dying in the process. Hook shook his head, audios overwhelmed by the screaming pitch of solar winds and light waves and gas burning so hot it'd melt optic sensors that dared look too closely. Starscream's electromagnetic field coursed through the room, impossibly transmitted through fire and spilling fuel and every piece of metal they touched. It radiated from the floors, berths, and every fleck of melted metal bubbling and bursting. They couldn't escape it. He dominated the room like a star bursting into existence in their midst. They could no more fight his presence than they could reach out and snuff the sun with their hands.

Rampant electricity burnt off the damaged Air Commander, filling his injuries with white light and pure energy unleashed, and it snapped around the Constructicon's arms where they'd raised them to defensively shield their faces. The fire beat at them, but Starscream seemed unaffected. Maybe he wasn't touched by the flames. Maybe he couldn't feel the tongues of blue and white lapping up his thighs, stirred by his slow walk into the room until the giant ripples reached the far walls of the repair bay. Maybe he was a creature of the Pit, vengeance personified, or maybe he was just that far gone.

Skywarp twisted desperately, mouth just barely above the surface of the fire, trapped under the berth and burning alive in the puddled fuel. If Starscream saw his wingmate clawing and wailing, he didn't seem to care. He didn't seem to care about the way his wings dripped melted metal, either. Maybe the cracked sanity behind the cracked optics didn't feel the blackening plating, or recognize the agonized noise as coming from his wingmate.

They'd forgotten, here on Earth. They'd forgotten that the idiot play-act belittled a Decepticon who could outfly them all, on or off the planet. His screeching histrionics so often deceived them, because they so often forgot that the flighty, devious officer under the act was protected by a spark powerful enough to earn a name most mechs didn't think closely about. They didn't think about how no other Seeker took to space, had a name that even suggested it, but the Air Commander _embraced_ his oddity. He embraced it, owned it, and flung it through the room to consume them under pressure and pounding waves of electromagnetic field melded with spark energy.

It pulsed off his spark, and the Constructicons staggered back before the impossible energy. It was impossible! Not possible! That spark gave off too much energy, it wasn't _possible_, but it was undeniably identifiable as _Starscream_. Every working sensor they had blared _Starscream_. They were surrounded by, invaded by _Starscream_, and the energy he radiated stripped the world away to replace it with the insubstantial, airless void of space. Space - and fire.

Under the painful scream of a star, the base-wide alarms finally going off were almost unheard.

_*"Containment team to the repair bay!"*_ Hook managed through his coughing. He'd caught a face full of searing, burning oxygen, and delicate equipment melting inside his throat and chest had him gagging. He squinted his visor and turned his back, trying to protect his sensitive hands as fuel sloshed over his feet and black smoke billowed across the ceiling. _*"Emergency containment: subdue Starscream and extinguish the fire, and I do not care in what order it's done!"*_ Between his disorientation and Mixmaster's surprised yelp as his tires caught fire, they were in no shape to stand up to a genuine _mad mech_ on their own!

The fuel kept splashing, pushing the fire higher, and Hook took a quick look over his shoulder. This was too much fuel for one mech! Who was bleeding out in the corridor to provide this flood? He reached out over the gestalt bond instinctively, searching for Long Haul, but Starscream's wild energy assault had him too off-balance to focus, unable to even seen straight as his equilibrium chip flat-out gave up. It was no surprise that Skywarp's specialized spatial sensors had been knocked for a loop if this was what he'd faced!

The dark flyer was thrashing under the rising flames, and Mixmaster cursed as he forged through the hovering river of fire between the berths. The chemist fumbled, trying to undo the wrist restraints while protecting his own face. Hook couldn't stop coughing. He didn't dare turn around to bear the brunt of the heat again, but he reached one hand back and tore at the nearest restraint. Dirge shrieked pitifully at his back, half-pinned to the berth and scraping his thrusters against it as he tried to get away. When Hook risked a glance back, the Conehead's optics were windows into sheer terror as he stared at the unreal Seeker stalking across the room.

But it was Thundercracker who caught Starscream's attention. Perhaps because of close proximity, as the out-of-it blue Seeker was still just standing there in the front of the repair bay. Although he'd started react to the fire torching his paint black, he seemed to be doing so in slow motion. He was looking down at the pool of flames at his knees, absentmindedly making the connection between pain and cause.

The blue Seeker's optics reset several times, and sense seeped into them as the pain filtered in. "What..?"

"Thundercracker," rasped around the room, ruffling the flames.

Like the ebbing, thrumming keen of cosmic sound it sounded like, Starscream's voice whipped the inferno higher in its wake, and Mixmaster gave up trying to reach Skywarp. Hook stumbled forward, abandoning Dirge despite the shrieking, wordless plea that chased after him. The two Constructicons retreated, fleeing the firestorm front room of the repair bay and leaving it to Starscream insanity.

Which paced around his wingmate, ever closer, and Thundercracker froze under that skewed regard. Froze the way he had when the world had gone away, because what was thunder without sky to echo in? The first snap of out-of-control energy had thrown his processor into a recursive loop, Skywarp's generator into complete confusion, and the Coneheads into terror. They knew a head injury when they saw such aberrant behavior, but this - _this_ -

This was _dangerous_, and not just because Starscream didn't seem to be noticing pain.

He could fight, but the Air Commander's hand had already wrapped around the back of his neck, caressed under his helm, and the blue Seeker's went rigid. Burning pain or not, Skywarp's croaking cries and Dirge's shrieking aside, he wasn't going to move until those fingers lost their grip on the components they'd settled on. He could take a few burns. He couldn't take his head being ripped open.

"Thundercracker," Starscream rasped again, split lips smiling widely.

The fire danced around them, but no more than the unstable light behind his wingleader's cracked optic. Thundercracker looked into lunacy and bent submissively, allowing the hold on his head to guide him closer. Walking into the mad Seeker's arms voluntarily was no guarantee of safety, but struggling guaranteed worse. Starscream's free arm closed around him, and a lash of flame seared over the back of his wings like an extension of the injured, crazed mech's will. Paint blistered. Thundercracker arched but bit off his cry.

"So you think a human construct could replace me, hmm?" That whispered scream purred fire and space into his audio, words almost unimportant.

Except that he could ignore them only at his peril. Thundercracker gasped for air, gasped for atmosphere that had fled. "No."

"Megatron could never replace me," Starscream overrode his wingmate's soft protest, pouring liquid heat through a void, and the blue Seeker shuddered despite himself. "I'll destroy anyone who tries. Remember that, Thundercracker."

He'd promise anything to escape right now, but this was a promise he could honestly make. "I'll remember," the blue flyer swore. His hands pressed against Starscream's shattered cockpit, earnestly projecting his honesty through his own small, nearly-subsumed EM field. The strong push of skepticism in return broke through the sludgy haze of the past few breems, forcing memory to the surface.

Primus, he remembered the crack and garbled screech when Starscream coldly punched through Skywarp's chest and maimed his spark chamber, forcing the disoriented teleporter to the wall. The savage Air Commander had demanded answers for their actions and words today, and he'd been most displeased by the replies he'd gotten. All Skywarp could babble were excuses. Excuses of fear and duty and rational thought that had made sense when standing between Megatron and Starscream earlier, but they counted for nothing right now.

Not now, when Starscream's free hand was tipping Thundercracker's chin up and that glowing optic searched him pitilessly. The trapped jet prayed his wingleader would accept silence, because it was better to offer no excuse than a bad one when he was dead either way.

The back of Starscream's free hand brushed down Thundercracker's cheek, and the burning Seeker whispered close enough to breathe smoke and flickers of starburst energy over trembling lips, "If you ever leave me…"

"I won't. Starscream, I won't."

"If you **ever** leave me…"

"I **won't**!" That hand slid down his body as the fire licked up it, burning metal and insanity advancing from opposite directions. The blue Seeker whimpered quietly, paralyzed by the squeeze of fingers under his helm and the throbbing sound of a star. The flames left black marks and agony, but the palm of Starscream's hand spread flat over golden canopy glass in tender, blatant threat. The skepticism and achingly hot _anger_ pulsed in electric surges around him, through him, and it turned suddenly intent. The whimper turned into a frantic, strangled appeal.

Dark lips curved, smirking, against Thundercracker's mouth.

The containment team arrived almost too late to save him.

* * *

><p><strong>[* * * * *]<strong>


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